


Rip Current

by Tea-Diva (Revenant)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Domestic, Friendship, Hawaii, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Post-OIF, Romance, Slow Build, Surfing, Travel, Vacation, surfer!Brad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:58:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Tea-Diva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving the Marine Corp, Nate suspects that he's already lived the best and most significant part of his life. A vacation in Oahu just might change his thoughts on this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luxover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** This story is a work of fiction based on the fictionalized characters from the HBO miniseries _Generation Kill_. I do not own the characters or the series, or the book that inspired it; nor am I profiting from this in any way. I intend no disrespect to the real men on whom the book was based, nor do I make any assumptions about them. The book that Nate writes in this story is, I imagine,  not at all like _One Bullet Away_.

>   
> **There’s no current that pulls you under in the beach. Rip currents pull you out. It’ll dig up the sand so it’ll cause a trench or a trough to be there. Even after the rip current is gone that drop off can still be pretty pronounced, so people will step off into it, not ready, next you know they’re getting carried off shore. What happens is people get scared or tired from trying to fight that current and think they’re not going to make it back in. And that’s when they have problems.**
> 
> ~ _On Rip Currents_ , Peter Davis  
>  (Galveston Island Beach Patrol Chief)

Nate wakes with the sound of crashing surf in his ears, the rumble smash of the waves slowly driving the echo of gunfire and screams back until there is nothing but the steady heartbeat of the ocean breaking along the beach and Nate’s own breaths filling up the empty night.

He lies there, momentarily immobilized as he tries to remember that this is reality now. The king sized bed with crisp white sheets that smell strongly of musty bleach, the cool quiet night, the thundering surf, the moisture that hangs in the air even when the humidity isn’t high. When he squeezes his eyes shut his skin feels dry and burnt, the sting of angry shamal winds and the fierce, unrelenting sun more real than anything. He opens his eyes quickly and takes a steadying breath.

He’s in Oahu, not Iraq. That part of his life is over and done.

Kicking back the covers, Nate sits up and scrubs his hands through his hair. It feels wrong, too short to be a civilian cut but definitely no longer compliant with the grooming standard. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to look at his own reflection without hearing Sixta passing judgment. The thought almost makes him smile, except it’s not the first time he’s been chased out of sleep by memories. It’s been months, but he still mostly sleeps in two-hour intervals until he surrenders and climbs out of bed. He had hoped Oahu would be different, a balm that would smooth away the past. 

It’s two days into his vacation and so far it hasn’t worked.

He abandons his bed with reluctance, his body heavy with exhaustion, eyes squinting and gritty in that way that feels familiar. Feels normal. As an afterthought, he picks up his notebook from the coffee table where he’d left it and pushes open the thin, creaking door of his cabin, settling onto the front steps of his porch. Beyond the narrow path overshadowed by thickly green bushes and brightly colored flowers he can see pale stripes in the dark as the surf rolls up the sand.

The world is a shadowed grey-blue, faint traces of pre-dawn light offering a hopeful glow along the horizon, silhouetted palm trees shifting and swaying in a cool breeze that makes Nate shiver, his sweat drying quickly in a prickling shock of cold. The world is silent, sleeping. 

There was a time when he would have considered it peaceful. When he might have leaned his head against the rough wood of the porch railing and let the steady predictability of the waves lull him. But that was back when being well rested wasn’t a vague memory. When he could close his eyes and drift and not see blood and death. When theoretical knowledge was the only kind of knowledge he had of war and violence.

Nate props his notebook on his lap, uncapping the ballpoint he keeps tucked inside and pauses, his pen poised at the top of a blank page, his thoughts circling like birds of prey above a kill. There’s so much he wants to write down that for a moment it feels as if he has absolutely nothing to say. He pushes through it, closes his eyes and breathes slow and deep until an image crystalizes in his mind. 

When he opens his eyes again, he’s already writing.

His words are a spidery black scrawl that spills over the page, the memory taking hold of him until he forgets everything else. It’s almost an hour before he looks up and when he does, it is with a certain amount of surprise. There’s a hint of pink along the horizon, the sun fighting its way into the sky. 

He feels steady again and, with a sigh, Nate recaps his pen and closes his notebook. When he takes a long slow breath he smells the salt in the air, the vibrant tangy freshness of vegetation that he can only describe as ‘green’, and a crisp coolness that makes the world feel clean somehow.

In the distance, Nate sees a man running along the curve of the beach, bare feet splashing in the water. His pace is as steady as the cadence of the waves, something about him looking loose and natural, like he belongs in a way that Nate has never felt of himself. 

It occurs to him that this is the second time he’s seen this man running in as many days, and he wonders if it’s a routine. He has no way of knowing. Nate took his watch off the moment he boarded the plain to Hawaii and hasn’t bothered to look at it since.

Not too long ago he might have been out there running himself. After a month of living as a retired Marine he’d started to wonder if the strict regimen he kept was entirely healthy, which prompted him to attempt a kind of rebellion against habits that had become engrained in the Corps. He left his bedroom in disarray, his bed a pile of twisted sheets and heaped blankets, his clothes clumped in heaps wherever they happened to fall, and he stopped his morning runs.

“This place is a mess, Nate,” his mother had said when she had come to visit. “You weren’t even this untidy when you were a teenager.” 

Nate had shrugged. “I’m trying something new.”

It occurs to him that he might have gone from one extreme to another. More than once he’s felt an itch to get moving. It’s not like he completely rejected physical activity, but somehow sporadic basketball games with his friends, and half-hearted sit-ups and push-ups in his own apartment never felt like enough. 

He watches as the runner makes his way across the stretch of beach directly in front of Nate’s cabin before disappearing into the distance as the sun crawls upwards, splashing the world with violent color: red and purple and pink and orange that makes Nate think that it is going to be another warm, beautiful day.

His cabin is secluded, one of only six private cottages that make up the Dharma Resort. It’s set a fair enough ways off the private beach and shrouded by enough vegetation to offer privacy from the two other cabins nearby, as well as anyone out by the water. Nate leaves the door open when he goes inside to change, pulling on a pair of shorts overtop of his boxer-briefs, and exchanging the worn blue T-shirt he had slept in for a fresh white one. 

There’s a little two-cup coffee brewer sitting on a counter in the corner with complementary packets of coffee right beside it and he’s momentarily tempted. It’s habit by now, like his day doesn’t actually begin until he gets his first dose of caffeine. Filling up an entire mug to the brim feels like a luxury. Having a second cup to follow-up the first, let alone an entire pot to himself is one of those little things that Nate keeps finding himself feeling eternally grateful for. No more military rations.

The coffee served up at the main house however, is incredibly good, far better than any pre-packaged blend, and well worth the trip. Besides, he can tell by the way his stomach is roiling that it’s probably better to have some food to go along with his caffeine. Slipping on his sandals, Nate locks his cabin door as he heads out.

The walk to the main house is not far, and though Nate knows there is a pebble walkway that cuts through the foliage behind his hut, he prefers to walk along the sand. There’s an outcrop of dark volcanic rock that stretches almost down to the water just before the steps leading to the outdoor eating area and the main house of the Dharma Resort. Yesterday when Nate had walked up to the smooth stone patio sheltered by vibrant green trees and bright flowers he had been the only guest there. A willowy blond woman with a warm, glowing smile had greeted him and refilled his coffee cup when it had gone empty, but she had sensed his wish for quiet and busied herself preparing things for the morning buffet without making much conversation beyond a gracious, ‘Aloha.

This morning as Nate walks past the rocks he notices a man sitting perfectly straight, legs folded up in an awkward tangle. He’s chanting. It’s a steady lilting rhythm of words that Nate doesn’t understand, but something in the smooth cadence of the voice reminds him of the mellifluous moaning call to prayer that had become familiar in Iraq. 

“Prayer is a good thing. Maybe it will keep them too preoccupied to shoot at us”. He remembers the exhilarated thump-thump of his heartbeat as he had crouched behind one of his platoon’s Humvees looking over at his Sergeant with mustered confidence as they sat, meters away from a hostile town. 

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he tries to dislodge the memory.

The chanting cuts-off suddenly, and Nate glances up to man, meeting a warm chocolate-brown gaze. “Aloha, brother,” the man greets, his voice soft and unobtrusive, but carrying easily over the distance.

Nate nods. “Good morning.” 

The man has an orange hibiscus flower tucked behind his ear and a colorful lei hanging over his bare chest. He’s wearing loose white linen pants and no shoes, his hair is dark and his skin is golden. Sitting up there on the rocks he looks like a Hawaiian deity overseeing his land.

“I’m Rudy Reyes,” the man says, leaping off the top of the rocks, his feet planting down onto the sand firmly. 

"Nate Fick," Nate says as he accepts the offered handshake,

Rudy's smile broadens. “Welcome to my resort, Nate. I hope you’re stay with us so far has been good?”

“Yes. It’s beautiful here.”

Rudy sighs, his warm brown eyes taking in the stretch of beach and the surf and the line of trees. “It certainly is.”

They end up walking up the steps together and when Nate zeroes in on the fresh pot of coffee, Rudy walks round to the other side of the buffet table and hands him a fresh mug. “Are you a breakfast man, Nate?”

In the middle of savoring his first sip of coffee, Nate glances up, more than a little embarrassed by his level of distraction. “Pardon?”

“Breakfast,” Rudy says with a laugh. “I’ve always found that you’re either a breakfast person, or you’re not. Breakfast people like to make an occasion out of the first meal of the day. Eggs, fresh fruit, fried tomatoes, waffles and croissants and sausage.”

Nate considers the question. “I don’t really know.” The realization is surprising. “I think I used to be a breakfast person when I was a kid.” Back when his mom or dad was around to spoil him, and he didn’t have to cook for himself, or keep to his own schedule. 

“You never grow out of being a breakfast person.” Hands perched on his hips, and looking like a credible if cape-less impersonation of Superman, Rudy declares: “I’m going to make you breakfast.”

Nate makes a half-hearted effort to resist the offer, but Rudy is already heading toward the open kitchen area, picking various ingredients up as he moves. “It’s no trouble,” he insists. “I love cooking. It’s part of the reason why Cherie and I opened up this resort. Most of my friends aren’t really breakfast people, and so far the majority of the guests checked in for the week are happy to make do with the buffet so they can make the most of their stay.” 

Rudy cracks two eggs onto a skillet, and then turns to looks at Nate over his shoulder. “Besides, it’s the least I can do for a Marine brother.” Nate glances down at his own arm where the bottom of his tattoo is showing beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. He had noticed, of course, Rudy’s own tattoo but hadn’t mentioned it. 

“What was your division?” Rudy asks, his attention focused on the skillet.

Nate frowns as he takes another sip of coffee. It's not something he particularly feels like talking about, and briefly, he considers asking to change the subject. “First Reconnaissance.”

Rudy nods, his back still turned, his attention still focused on preparing breakfast. “That’s cool, my brother. How do you like your eggs?”

As it turns out, Rudy is not only a good host but he’s also a formidable cook. Nate ends up groaning over his breakfast while Rudy keeps his coffee mug filled and regales him with stories about the island. They don’t talk about the Corps even if Nate catches the assessing look the other man flashes his way, taking in the haircut and the dark circles under his eyes. 

Hell, he probably notices that Nate still hasn’t regained all the weight he lost in Iraq. If Rudy has questions, though, he keeps them to himself and Nate is grateful for that.

As Nate finished eating, Rudy asks, “What are your plans for this fine day?” 

“I don’t know,” Nate admits. “Yesterday I ended up on a fishing cruise.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm.” Nate takes a final swallow of coffee, setting his empty mug back onto the table before getting up to help Rudy clear away the dishes. “It turns out I don’t like fishing.”

“Well, at least it was a new experience. That’s what vacations are supposed to be about.” Rudy takes the dishes that Nate hands him and fits them into a large dishwasher. “Have you tried out the beaches yet?”

“I went swimming out by my cabin.”

“No, no,” Rudy says, shaking his head so emphatically that the orange flower behind his ear blurs. “Surfing.”

Nate’s eyebrows jerk upward. “Oh. No. I’ve never surfed, and I’d hate to have one of my new experiences include the Hawaii hospital.”

Rudy tips his head back as he laughs. “You can’t come to the north shore and not try surfing. This afternoon, I’m taking you out. Small waves, no reef, and I’ll keep an eye on you.” 

There isn’t really any way to get out of the invitation gracefully, and Nate isn’t even particularly certain that he wants to, so he agrees. Rudy beams at him. “I have to be around to make lunch but after that, you and me, we’ll head out to a spot I know.”

_________________________________

Oahu is teaming with people. Apparently Hawaii’s peak tourist season is pretty much always. For the most part, the crowds are happy and bustling, and it makes Nate feel pleasantly anonymous. He heads away from the Dharma resort in search of something to occupy his morning and stumbles on the shopping district.

The majority of trips Nate has taken in his life have been with his family so he never had much occasion to souvenir shop. He’s traveled with the Corps, but ferrying relief packages to desperate countries or, alternately, invading them wasn’t the kind of atmosphere that lent itself to souvenirs either. Not in Nate’s opinion. 

He feels a little lost walking through isle after isle of tacky shot glasses and sloppily painted tiny ceramic scenes of beaches. There’s a spinning rack of colorful Hawaiian license plates with different names on them: Susan, Albert, Bill, Natalie. He even comes across a selection of tiny spoons with minuscule pictures of Oahu beaches. 

On the far back wall he finds several shelves filled with little hula bobble-figurines and he can’t help but grin, picking one for each of his sisters. He buys his parents hand-crafted gifts, a painting that he sits and watches the artist finish, and some hand crafted jewelry, tucking everything he buys into the backpack he carries slung over his shoulder. 

Further down the road he finds a large stretch of beach that’s already teeming with people. There’s surfers skimming along the waves, kids on inflatable rafts thwapping at each other with pool noodles, he spots a few kayakers paddling between surfers and swimmers, and a motorboat stopping at a dock to pick up some people on a tube.

There’s still a few hours to kill before he has to meet up with Rudy at the resort so he finds a clear spot on the sand and pulls his towel out of his backpack, settling into a relatively clear spot between a line of sunbathers. 

Nate is not usually inclined to lie in the sun, mostly because he has found that he is incapable of tanning. Nate burns. _Always_. No matter what precautions he takes, or else he remains perfectly pale. As Rudy had said, however, holidays are about new experiences, and maybe this time Nate will be lucky. 

Reapplying his suntan lotion, Nate resettles his sunglasses over his eyes and then drops back onto his towel.

He can’t get comfortable.

The heat from the sun feels different than the dry, stifling heat of Iraq. The screams of little children aren’t tinged with fear or followed by the thundering crash of bombs. There’s shrill laughter and the splash of water all around but Nate’s skin is still crawling.

The water is as congested as the shore but he wades out and finds a relatively quiet spot, and he just floats, the water lapping up around his face as he closes his eyes. He feels heavy with exhaustion.

Nate has a strong suspicion that it is not a coincidence that the owner of his resort happens to be a retired Marine. He remembers his mother’s smile as he had sat on the couch in his parent’s living room in front of the Christmas tree, unwrapping the strangely flat present. At the time he had wondered if his parents had given him a calendar.

“Mom,” Nate remembers saying, staring at the glossy folder that had said ‘Oahu' in white script. “The reservation is for January.”

She’d matched his gaze evenly. “I know, honey. I booked the trip.”

“But I have school.”

It turned out that what he actually had was a decision to make. “It’s just an option,” she had explained later. “Something to consider. Your father and I can speak with the travel agent, we can change the timing so you can go away in the summer, or maybe over reading week?”

But she also said, “I’m worried about you, honey.” 

Nate went to class every day and took notes, and had absolutely no idea what he was doing there. Half the time it felt like it was just something he was supposed to do; something that was expected. It was what he’d planned to do before he’d joined the Marines. Mostly, it just felt like he was going back to the last thing that was familiar and hoping everything else would just fall into place.

“You’re allowed to take a break,” his mother had said. “Nathaniel, you came back from Iraq, retired from the Marines and went straight back to school. It’s okay to take some time off to figure things out. You can defer for a year, start back next fall.”

Nate feels a rushing tug across his skin; the familiar whooshing pull of water and his eyes snap open. He knows exactly what has happened, the sensation all too familiar: he’s floated right into a rip current. 

The beach is growing steadily more distant as Nate is pulled further and further out. 

Vaguely, he hopes that the lifeguards don’t notice his predicament. Maybe for most swimmers getting stuck in a current like this is a serious thing and yeah, he knows the statistics, but he really should know better. He _does_ in fact know better, and the first clue should have been that a spot on the crowded beach was actually devoid of activity. 

The other clue was just about every lesson he ever had involving water during his Marine Corps training. The clues were all right there to be read in the water but Nate had been floating along with his eyes closed.

The current is strong, and he knows better than to fight it. Nate treads water, doesn’t panic, and inch by inch, shifts closer to the edge until finally, he slips free of the current. 

“Here,” a voice says, and a second later the end of a lime green surfboard with dark green edging and a thin orange stripe down the middle cuts right in front of Nate’s nose as he starts to swim for shore. “You found the rip current.”

Nate grips the edge of the board to prevent it from bumping into him. “I know,” he says, irritated with himself for the foolish mistake. When he looks up at the guy who’s sitting on the board, his irritation is forgotten. He blinks. 

The guy is straddling his surfboard, plain black board shorts bunched a little, exposing a portion of thigh. His chest is bare, skin tanned perfectly golden under the sun. Nate can see freckles along the bridge of the man’s nose, but mostly he gets sidetracked by the bright blueness of the man’s eyes, watching him from beneath a fringe of blond hair. “I thought you’d need help, but you handled yourself pretty well.”

Nate wipes a hand across his face, brushing away the beads of water dripping off the ends of his hair. “It’s not the first time I’ve found myself caught in a rip current.”

The corner of the man’s mouth quirks upward slightly, but somehow manages to show all his teeth. “When in doubt, don’t go out.”

Nate snorts. “Thanks for the PSA, I’ll remember that next time.”

The man glances back over his shoulder toward the beach and Nate’s eyes drift involuntarily down the muscular torso, thick drops of water beading on tanned skin. The man asks, “Do you need a tow?”

“It’s fine.” Nate forces his eyes up and clears his throat. “Thanks, though.”

“Are you sure?” the guy asks, flashing a sharp little smile. “You don’t need to impress me.”

It’s embarrassing that the lighthearted flirting catches him so off-guard that he is honestly at a loss for words. “No,” Nate says. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, then.” The guy is already paddling away. “I’ll see you around.”

“Sure,” Nate croaks and adds quietly, to himself, “Dammit.”

_________________________________

He isn’t sure what it is about the exchange, but Nate finds himself turning it over in his head on his way back to his cabin.

It doesn’t feel like a missed opportunity because he’s only in Oahu for a little less than two weeks and then he’s going home. He’s not looking for a holiday fling or even a one night stand because he’s only just stopped breaking into spontaneous tears for no reason at all. His emotions are still a bit out of whack and frankly, he has no idea how he’d handle any sort of relationship right now, however casual.

Nate changes into a dry pair of swim shorts and grabs a new towel, draping his damp one out on the porch rail to air dry, pinned in place by a rock. Why didn't he say something back? He could have made a joke or something. That would have been normal, not getting flustered and swimming away like a bitch. That’s not something that Nate thinks he’s ever done before.

Really, he just shouldn’t have been in the rip current to begin with. Then the guy wouldn’t have even come over. If any of his Marines caught him floating straight out into the current like that they wouldn’t have shut up about it for weeks.

Nate twists his key with a vicious twist as he locks his cabin, heading to the main house. They’re not ‘his' Marines anymore he reminds himself as he moves along the beach, his sandals kicking up sand as he walks, they have a new LT and a new set of orders. 

When he gets to the patio dining area he discovers that the place is actually crowded. That morning Rudy had mentioned there were about thirteen guests currently staying at the resort, and by Nate’s estimate most of those are present on the patio. Conveniently, he spots an empty table in the corner that Nate happily drops into, out of the way and in a quieter spot. A pleasant, smiling woman takes his order and brings him a glass of freshly squeezed juice as he waits.

“Everything all right, my warrior brother?” Rudy appears standing right by the side of Nate’s table without Nate ever noticing the man’s approach. There’s a white apron covering his naked chest, he still has the hibiscus flower tucked behind his ear, and he’s gripping a spatula in his right hand. 

Smiling, Nate nods. “It’s fine.”

Rudy flashes him a brief, skeptical look, but lets it go. “This is the lunch rush. When the last person clears out, we can head out.”

They end up leaving a bit before that, Rudy's wait staff happily dismissing him once he’s prepared the last plate, promising to take care of guests and clear everything away. Still, Rudy doesn’t leave until the lithe blonde woman Nate had encountered the other day steps out onto the patio in a dark blue sarong dress and says, “We’ll manage. _Go_!”

“I love you, babe,” Rudy says, transferring the bright orange flower from behind his ear to hers. He grins at Nate. “That’s my Cherie.”

There’s a green Jeep parked in the front driveway that already has two surfboards tied to the roof. One has a sunrise beach scene painted across the expanse; the other board is a vivid red with a single white swirl running down the length of it. 

“I know the perfect spot to learn how to surf,” Rudy says as they climb into the truck. “Surfers are usually pretty protective of their spots, but I know the guys who use this beach. I don’t think they’d mind.” They pull out onto the road, turning in the opposite direction that Nate walked that morning. 

It's on the tip of Nate's tongue to ask why Rudy is doing all of this: the breakfast, the surf lessons, any of it. What he ends up saying, though is, “We can just go to one of the public beaches. I don't mind.”

Rudy shakes his head. “Then you have to compete with crowds, as well as the waves and other surfers. This spot we’re heading to is almost never crowded. The guys who surf there keep the secret locked down, but they’d understand me making an exception for a Marine Corps brother.”

“Are they Marines?” 

“No," Rudy says. "But they’re warriors.”

After a while, they turn down a narrow dirt road, the trees falling away until Nate can look out the window and spot the water. “I love this island,” Rudy says with an appreciative sigh. “Everything about it is alive and full of energy.”

The truck jostles along the dirt road, and Nate braces his hand along the window ledge. “How long have you lived here?”

“Not long. Cherie and I moved after I retired from the Corps. That was after Afghanistan.” Nate nods. He remembers Afghanistan. “Originally, we were just going to get a house here, but the realtor who was showing us around took us up to the resort, just as a suggestion. It was perfect.”

“Sounds like fate.”

“Fate,” Rudy echoes. “Yeah. Like destiny. It was even within our budget, plus it would be a home and a business. We’ve been making good money doing something we love.” Rudy has that same quality that the runner Nate had watched that morning had, a sort of rightness, a sense of direction and purpose that makes Nate ache.

“Here we are,” Rudy declares, interrupting Nate’s thoughts. He brings the car to a halt and turns off the motor. They wrangle the boards off the roof of the Jeep and Nate ends up carrying the shiny red board down a steep, rocky incline to the beach. 

“First,” Rudy says as he drops his board onto the sand. “You’ve got to scuff up the wax on the board pretty good, otherwise you’ll just slip right off.” He demonstrates, picking up a handful of sand and rubbing it along the surface of the board. 

When Nate copies him, Rudy runs a palm across the top, checking Nate’s work. “Good. Now we go into the water.”

The waves crashing along the sand are fairly sizable. Out deeper, those waves only get bigger, and Nate wasn't lying when he had said he'd never been surfing. “Aren’t I supposed to practice getting up onto my board on dry land, first?”

Rudy cocks his head. “Are you going to surf on dry land or in the water?” When glances dubiously out at the waves, Rudy nods definitively and says, “We’re going into the water,” then he picks up his board, tucks it beneath his arm, and sprints down the beach toward the waves, lying on top of the board as he paddles out. 

Nate doesn’t feel nearly as graceful carrying his own board but he doesn’t drop it, and he follows the same path Rudy took out into the water.

Of course, once he gets far enough the waves start rearing up over his head and shoving him back towards shore. It’s daunting because Rudy had promised that the waves at this beach were small, and also that they would start in a sandbar, which had seemed like a sensible plan.

In Nate's opinion, these waves are in no way small, and he's having difficulty getting past them. There is no sign of Rudy anywhere, though Nate doesn’t really want to start calling out for him because, well, he has his pride and also, he’s too busy coughing on the salt water that keeps slamming into him. 

He's a goddamned Marine. This is downright embarrassing.

“Hey,” a nasal voice says, and Nate glances over to see a dark headed, lanky man gripping a surfboard. “You gotta duck-dive that shit, otherwise you’re just gonna end up back on the beach, mouth full of salt water and trunks packed with sand.”

Nate has no idea what the guy is talking about but in the next moment he watches as the other man kicks toward an oncoming wave, takes in an exaggerated mouthful of air and then presses down on his surfboard, taking both it and his own body under the water as the wave ripples over top. 

It doesn’t seem like an overly complicated maneuver and when the next wave rolls in Nate tries it. He finds himself popping up right beside the stranger and feels a small curl of satisfaction with his progress. 

“I’m Ray,” the guy says. His surfboard is the color of the inside of a cantaloupe, with bright neon pink stylized flowers on it. “Pretty bitching, am I right?” Ray says, catching the direction of Nate’s gaze.

Nate raises his eyebrows. “It certainly makes a statement.”

“Yeah. You know what it says? ‘Look at me, I’m right the fuck over here.’" Ray grinds proudly. "None of this bullshit sky blue and sea foam green for my baby. If me and my board get separated, I’m damned well gonna find her again.” Nate can’t help but notice that Ray’s swim trunks are composed of equally loud colors, and wonders if the man's philosophy extends to his board shorts as well. “Hey, I didn’t catch your name.”

They duck-dive another wave and when they both resurface Nate says, “It’s Nate.”

“Nate.” Ray nods like he’s decided Nate’s name is acceptable. “Nate, you don’t have a single goddamned clue what you’re doing, do you?”

Pursing his lips, Nate says, “Not so much.”

“So what. You came out here and decided to teach yourself?” Ray’s eyes are slightly narrowed, assessing. “How did you find this place?”

“Actually,” Nate says, his eyes scanning for a sign of Rudy. “A friend promised to teach me.”

“Some friend,” Ray scoffs. “He didn’t even tell you to duck-dive the waves. I hope you’re not paying this dude.”

They dive under again and when they come up Rudy is right there, sitting on his board and smiling at them happily. “Nate, brother, I knew you’d make it out. The sandbar is around over this way.”

“Oh Jesus,” Ray says. “You got _Fruity Rudy_ to teach you how to surf?”

Nate glances at Rudy. The man still has the rippling physique of a Marine Corps warrior, and he probably hasn’t lost any of the training either. In comparison, Ray looks like a gangly twig and, even if Nate secretly thinks the guy might deserve it for his mouthy comment, he wonders if he’s going to have to step in when Rudy takes offense at the nickname, or even the tone. Then again, Rudy had mentioned knowing most of the guys who surf at this spot and Nate wonders if this is ribbing between friends, or if Ray is genuinely looking to cause trouble. 

His question is answered when Rudy laughs like this is an exchange they’ve had a million times before. For someone who was just insulted, the laugh sounds genuinely full and joyful, which is probably why Nate feels more than a little confused. “Is there a problem?” 

“No, not at all,” Ray scoffs, with a dramatic eye-roll and a tone dripping with sarcasm. “If you subscribe to Rudy’s ‘surfing as a path to enlightenment’ philosophy.”

Rudy smiles serenely. “There are worse paths you can take to enlightenment.”

“All right, _Buddha_.” Ray turns back to Nate. “I hope you realize he’s not gonna teach you shit. He’s gonna sit on his board and watch you repeatedly land on your face, and then tell you it’s all part of the journey.”

“When surfers first went over to Africa they found some of the best waves on beaches located near extremely remote villages. The people who lived in those villages had probably never seen a white man before, let alone a surfboard, but they took the boards out right into the surf and stood up the first time out, on their board while riding the curl.”

Ray rolled his eyes. “Yeah, for like, _three seconds_ , and then they fell on their _face_.”

Nate snorts a laugh. “Are you offering to teach me then, Ray?”

“What?” Ray looks surprised, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. 

Rudy bursts into raucous laughter. “That’s not wise, brother. Even an ex Recon Marine doesn’t stand a very good chance of surviving a surfing lesson with Ray Person.”

“I’m not that bad,” Ray protests with a pout.

The waves are pushing them back toward the shore but no one seems concerned. “Tell that to Walt,” Rudy retorts.

“Yeah, well… Some people have a natural ability, and other people are just train wrecks waiting to happen. I can’t be held responsible for Walt.”

Rudy scratches his chin. “So, the fact that Walt’s taken the prize money at Big Wave Africa two years running is a fluke?”

“Damned straight,” Ray answers. “Brad hasn’t entered Big Wave in two years. If he had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Eventually they make their way over to the sandbar, which does in fact have much smaller waves, much to Nate's relief. He spends the morning watching Rudy surf, all steady and loose as if he’s standing on a skateboard rolling across flat solid ground, listening to Ray shout insults and constantly reminding them that: “This surf is nothing. It’s like the _bunny hill_ of waves. No, it’s _less_ than a bunny hill. What d’you call something that’s smaller than a bunny hill? An anthill? Way to ride an _ant hill_ , Fruity Rudy!”

Rudy’s instruction consists of telling Nate to ‘feel the wave’ and ‘not to over-think it’. Ray’s instruction is nowhere near as succinct, but boils down mostly to the fact that the only thing Nate needs to be concentrating on at this point is getting up on his board.

Getting onto the board, Nate discovers, isn’t the hard part. 

The hard part is staying there.

“Whoo-hoo!” Ray shouts and claps. “A world record and personal best. Nathaniel Fick stays up for a grand total of _four seconds_!” Nate takes the ribbing because between Rudy and Ray, he’s actually having fun and laughing and for the first time since his plane landed he feels like he's actually on vacation, and not as if someone has just hit the 'pause' button on reality. 

He’s never had this particular perspective of the waves. He’s pretty high above the water and though he understands the basic physics behind surfing, he feels like a newborn colt standing for the first time. He curls his toes and clenches his hands and braces for the inevitable fall, because Nate has found that the moment he manages to successfully stand on his board, he starts to think about falling off it.

Rudy says. “To ride a wave, you have to be at peace with yourself. That’s the first hurdle.” He adds, “You’re getting better,” even if Nate doesn’t think that’s strictly true.

“The first hurdle,” Ray says. “Is standing up on your fucking board and staying there long enough to _get_ to a wave.”

“This concludes our lesson for the day.”

“Wait,” Nate says, catching Rudy’s phrasing. “'For the day?' You haven’t given up on me yet?”

Rudy smiles. “Never, my warrior brother. You haven’t learned to surf yet.” 

Something in Nate’s expression prompts Ray to begin cackling with glee. “I’m so there,” he says. “Sign me up. Same time, same place.”

They climb out of the water, propping their boards up in the sand. “Do you need a lift?” Rudy asks as he reaches for his towel.

Ray shakes his head. “Naw, man. I stole the truck from Walt.”

Rudy’s eyebrows jerk up. “You better get it back before he notices it’s gone. He feels the same about that truck as you do about your board.”

“Dude, the bitch was out with Brad on dawn patrol. They’ve probably been killing themselves all day over at Pipeline. No way he’s going to notice his baby’s been out of the garage.” 

As they finish drying off Ray squints over at Nate. “You should come by the place, have dinner with us.”

"Ray," Rudy says, his tone soft but firm. “Maybe you should run that by the Iceman.” 

“He’s _fine_ ," Ray says, unfolding a pair of sunglasses and putting them on with a dramatic flourish. "How many times does he have to say it?”

Rudy shrugs. “As many times as it takes to become true.”

“Alright there, Yoda. I was gonna invite you, too, but forget it. I’ll see you bitches tomorrow.” Ray tosses his towel over his shoulder and picks up his board, waving as he marches up the hill.

Rudy and Nate take their time gathering their things and climbing the hill. As Rudy finishes tying their boards to the roof, Nate says, “I had a good day. Thanks for the lesson.”

“You can’t teach surfing. You can either surf, or you can’t. It's something you have to figure out for yourself.”

“Well, at the moment, I think I’m of the second variety,” Nate says, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

Rudy nods. “At the moment.” He says it with a kind of weight to the words, like he’s not talking about surfing at all. Nate doesn’t ask what exactly the other man means.

_________________________________

Nate is starving by the time they make it back to the resort. He washes up and then goes out to eat at a local bar that Rudy recommends. He stays out dancing and drinking ridiculously colorful, fruity drinks with higher alcohol content than a straight up shot. By the time he staggers back to his cabin the only thing he has energy left to do is to kick off his shoes before he collapses face-first into bed.

When his eyes snap open, it’s still dark out. His heart is hammering against his ribcage and every muscle is clenched like a fist. He grabs for his journal but for the longest while he can’t think of anything to say. 

He’s tired of feeling like he never made it out of Iraq. He’s tired of feeling like he left some vital part of himself somewhere on the road to Baghdad. He’s tired of feeling all the time as if he doesn’t fit anywhere, no longer a warrior, but not a civilian, either. 

Nate writes it all down and then he closes his notebook. His therapist said this would help him make sense of his experience. Nate doesn't think it's working.

In the bathroom, he washes up and pulls on a pair of shorts, slipping on his running shoes before he leaves the cabin. He takes off running along the shoreline, following the rushing swish of the waves, the slow rise of the sun hanging over his right shoulder. He runs until he hits a stretch of tall rock that juts out deep into the water, and then he turns around and starts heading back.

_________________________________

Ray is leaning over the buffet table stealing coffee when Nate finds his way to the dining area for breakfast. “You better not have finished off that pot,” he says, in lieu of a proper greeting.

“Charming,” Ray says. “And no, _your highness_ , there’s plenty more for all the good little girls and boys to enjoy.”

Nate fills a mug with coffee and grabs a slice of bacon from the buffet tray. He supposes that he’s coming in later than usual because there are people settled at tables already, happily enjoying their first meal of the day. He stakes out a table in the far corner, which Ray happily settles at while Nate goes in search of breakfast.

When he returns, Ray snatches the bacon off of Nate’s plate and stuffs it all in his mouth before Nate can protest. “So,” Ray says, his cheeks puffed like a chipmunk’s as he chews. “Brad totally fell off his board at Pipe the other day and cracked his head open. I was wondering if we could do the surf-thing in the morning instead of the afternoon.”

Nate blinks, a forkful of egg halfway to his mouth. “Uh, what?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Ray says, waving a dismissive hand. “Walt just told him he had a concussion, but one of us has to be around to make sure he actually, like, takes it easy, and since Walt has to do a thing in the afternoon, I thought, y’know, maybe we could surf in the morning.”

Nate has his mouth open ready to comment when Cherie pauses by their table. “Ray, are you eating us out of house and home again?”

The smile Ray flashes her is filled with false innocence and schoolboy charm. “No ma’am. I’m just having one cup of tasty tasty coffee.”

Cherie narrows her eyes suspiciously. “All right then. I’ll send Rudy out to you two.” When she turns to Nate, her smile warms immediately. “Good morning,” she says, and then moves off toward the kitchen.

Nate is feeling more than a little confused, mostly because he’s still trying to make sense of the jumbled sentences Ray hit him with before he had even finished his coffee. “You know, Ray, you don’t have to teach me to surf. If your friend is hurt you should probably visit him.”

“No, no,” Ray says. “Brad doesn’t actually like, _have_ a concussion, Walt just _told_ him that he did because otherwise the idiot would just keep pushing until he _did_ get a concussion or, you know, brained himself on some coral. If you’d rather do it in the afternoon that totally works for me.”

Before Nate can tactfully explain that Ray has missed his point, Rudy comes over with a pot of coffee, refilling both their mugs, before dropping into a chair at the table. “How’s Brad doing?”

Ray sighs. “He’s fine.” Nate can’t hide the smirk behind his mug fast enough, and Ray hits him with an accusing glare “ _What_?”

“Nothing,” Nate says. He purses his lips. “Generally speaking, if a person is ‘fine’ you don’t have to tell them that they have a concussion when they actually don’t.”

“Okay, well, it’s not lying if it _could_ have been true.” 

Nate laughs. “That’s not how logic works, Ray.” 

Rudy frowns, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “Why did you tell the Iceman that he had a concussion?” 

“Look," Ray says with an exaggerated sigh. "You’re both missing the point: _Brad’s totally fine_. He fell at Pipeline yesterday and yeah, he cut his head and he threw a holy fit but he went to the hospital and they checked him out. But, y’know, Walt saw an opportunity, and it’s not like Brad ever listens to his doctors anyway, so Walt told him he had a concussion.” He catches Nate’s look and says, “Pipeline’s kind a big thing. As in, big ass freaking waves with a nasty coral reef right below it.”

“Okay,” Nate says.

Rudy shakes his head, looking mournful. “I thought he’d take a break after the Triple Crown.”

“You know Brad,” Ray says. “Winning the Crown doesn’t mean a damned thing to him, it was just another opportunity to surf. Like he really needs an excuse. He’s on dawn patrol every damned day. Mostly, I don’t even know what time he leaves. Walt was just trying to get him to take it easy.”

“But you still insist that he’s fine.”

“Come on, Rudy. Brad doesn’t 'take a break' from surfing. It’s not a job; it’s a way of life. This is how he copes with shit. So, y’know, at least he’s coping.”

By the time Nate retrieves his pack from his cabin and makes it back to the main house, Ray has finished lashing his board to the roof of the Jeep. “Road trip!” he cheers and quickly adds “Shotgun!”

Rudy and Nate share a look, but Nate happily climbs into the backseat. The moment Rudy turns over the engine, Ray’s popping a CD into the player, and the shrill sounds of Avril Lavigne fill the cab.

By the time they break for lunch, Nate is able to ride what Ray calls ‘ant hills’ and Rudy calls ‘respectable beach break’. He’s not comfortable zigzagging back and forth like Ray does, but he’s not pitching right off his board the moment he gets up either. When he pops-up, both his feet land right where they’re supposed to at the same moment and he’s starting to trust that he won’t just trip over himself the moment he gets up.

“Not bad,” Ray says, clapping him on the shoulder as they carry their boards back up to the Jeep. “Tomorrow we’ll try surfing some real waves, how’s that sound?”

“Like you’re crazy,” Nate quips.

They drop Ray off on the way back to Dharma Resort. Rudy turns down a smooth dirt road marked by a large post and lintel made of thick wood. There’s a worn yellow surfboard propped against the right pillar. 

Nate stares out the window at the wild greenery that makes him feel more than a bit like he’s driving through a rainforest, and then Rudy’s turning out onto a round driveway in front of a sprawling two-story mansion. It’s sand colored, with ironwood shingles and wood framing the windows and doors. Over top of the roof, presumably on the other side of the house, Nate can see the branches of a rather formidable tree.

“It’s a monkeypod tree,” Rudy explains. “I think this is one of the most beautiful homes on the island. Everything about it is natural. Those are ohia wood poles and lava stone,” he nods his head to the pillars at the front entrance. Nate has no idea what ohia wood is, but he can easily agree that the house is beautiful. Beyond the trees, he can see the ocean.

“Private beach front, with respectable swells,” Rudy says, catching the direction of Nate’s gaze. 

“Yeah yeah,” Ray says, hopping out of the front seat. “Home sweet home.”

He unstraps his board from the roof and holds up his hand as he walks away, his thumb and pinky extended, middle three fingers curled. “See you bitches tomorrow!” It seems to be his customary send-off. They watch as he carries his board off to the left of the house.

"That's his house?" Nate wonders.

“He lives in the guest house,” Rudy explains, shifting gears and turning back down the private drive.

“Still. That place was pretty impressive.”

_________________________________

Nate gets into a rhythm. He still wakes up far too early, his skin caked with sweat and his breathing shallow, but now after he’s finished writing in his journal, he runs. When he reaches the stretch of rocks that cut off his progress, he turns back to his cabin and showers before heading up to the main house for breakfast and copious amounts of coffee.

During the morning, Nate takes tours around the island, walking through historic Honolulu, and the ‘Iolani Palace. He finds an expansive farmer’s market by following a crowd on the weekend, and even stumbles upon the Oahu version of Chinatown. The afternoon he spends with Ray and Rudy trying to "feel the waves" and ultimately landing on his face as Ray barks orders at him, “Relax” and “Don’t fight it, go with it” and Rudy looks at him with knowing eyes and says, “It’s all part of the journey” every time Nate asks what he’s doing wrong.

Sometimes Ray drags him out to a bar in the evening, other times Nate wanders in the direction of the music and laughter. He ends up at an Elvis show one night and a fancy seafood restaurant the next, and he likes how it feels: wandering with no destination in mind and stumbling onto things that he might not have found any other way. It doesn’t seem like a vacation anymore, he knows the island pretty well now and it feels a like he’s always lived here. 

It’s not a bad feeling.

Five days into his stay Nate maybe hasn’t made that much headway with the surfing, but at least he isn’t freezing up and panicking the moment he gets up on his board anymore. He refuses to leave the sandbar, but Ray has taught him how to zigzag ahead of the curl, shifting his weight to make the board turn. 

On Friday, when he jogs up the steps in search of breakfast, Cherie is setting out a new platter of fresh fruit and greets him with a warm smile, saying, “Rudy’s got a plate set aside for you.”

Nate fills up a mug with fresh coffee and stakes out a table near the kitchen. “Nate,” Rudy greets, and then disappears below the counter-top, reappearing a moment later with a plate laden with an egg white omelet, a small cup of strawberry yogurt and three strips of perfectly crispy bacon, which he sets on the table, before pulling off his apron and dropping onto a chair opposite and interlocking his fingers. He looks as if he is about to deliver some very bad news.

Rudy says, “We got an onshore wind today.”

Pausing in the act of sampling his omelet, Nate says, “That’s a bad thing?”

“The worst. It means that it’s all crumbling, shapeless, tragic surf out there.”

Nate tips his head down and fights a wave of disappointment. “Do you kayak?” Rudy asks. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t, it’s easy to pick up.”

Nate is disinclined to believe that because, “You said the same thing about surfing.”

Rudy shrugs. “You’re making progress. But today I’m gonna take you out to see something really spectacular.”

Rudy shepherds him into the Jeep after breakfast. He packs a cooler into the trunk before driving out to Kailua beach. They rent two banana yellow kayaks and march out into the water. The sky is bright and blue and perfectly clear. When he leans over the side of the boat, Nate can see fish swimming in the water.

“I hope you brought your camera.” 

“Where are we going?”

“You see over there?” Rudy points at a cluster of small islands. “Those are the Mokulua Islands. They’re bird sanctuaries.”

Nate doesn’t consider himself a big fan of birds. His grandfather had a parakeet and mostly Nate considered it a pretty irritating pet to have. He much preferred the idea of a dog or cat, something with fur that you could cuddle up to, or chase after. 

When they reach the shore, he only half pays attention when Rudy points out the different types of birds, mostly he’s distracted by how beautiful it is. For one thing, the islands are pretty much deserted. Rudy moves them along so they’re always ahead of any tour groups, and though they see a couple out paddling here and there, it's refreshingly peaceful. 

They have lunch on the beach, and end up swimming in a little lagoon and it feels like they’ve found a corner of the world completely new. Like they’re the only two people who know about this place. 

“Can I ask you something?” Rudy says, stretched out on the surface of the water, letting the waves rock him back and forth as he floats.

“Sure.”

“Why Oahu?”

Nate blinks, then laughs. “Actually, this whole trip wasn’t really my idea.” 

Rudy squints at him. “Whose idea was it?”

“My mom’s,” Nate admits with a wry twist to his mouth. Rudy laughs appreciatively. “She wanted me to take some time off. Switch gears.” He worries for a moment that now might be the time when Rudy asks, when Nate has to explain his time in Iraq.

Rudy says, “She sounds like a wise lady.”

“Yeah.” 

When they get back to the resort, Ray is waiting for them with his hands on his hips. “What did you ladies do all day without your buddy Ray Ray?”

Nate feels a surge of gratitude to both men for the easy acceptance and welcome they’ve given him. It’s the first time since leaving the Corps that he hasn’t felt alone, hasn’t caught himself missing the constant presence of his platoon. He says, “We rented some kayaks and toured around Kailua beach.”

Ray narrows his eyes at Rudy. “Are you turning him into a fucking goat boater?” and then, without letting Rudy answer, he turns back to Nate, “Did he take you to the Mokes? Did you see lots of boobies?”

“By which I hope you mean the bird,” Cherie says, coming up to them.

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Ray says, like it should be obvious. “Of _course_ I mean the birds.”

Cherie steals Rudy away to prepare dinner and Ray ends up following Nate back to his cabin. “I always thought this was a pretty awesome set up,” he says, as he walks up the porch steps. “It’s like, all the awesome stuff you get from staying at a hotel, like someone to cook for you, but it’s also like having your own place. I mean, check it. You’ve got your own kitchen. You could totally cook for yourself if you wanted to.”

Nate kicks off his sandals. “I’m on vacation. Cooking for myself is just about the last thing I want to do.”

Ray rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously. Especially since you’ve got Rudy to do it for you. I’ve tried bribing him to come and make me food but so far no luck.”

Despite the fact that Rudy has a perfectly good dinner going back at the resort Ray marches Nate out to the driveway and into a light metallic blue Range Rover Evoque that is polished to a glossy shine. Nate takes one look at it and says, “I sincerely hope this is your vehicle, and you are not involving me in your twisted desire to live out a version of grand theft auto.”

Ray cackles happily as he turns over the engine. “Bitch, _please_. This is totally _Walt’s_ car. If I was going to steal something it would be awesome, like a tank or an entire fucking battleship.”

“Would this be the same Walt who refuses to let you drive his car?”

“Yeah,” Ray says. “But he’s letting me do just about anything I want right now because he feels really guilty for taking Brad out surfing and allowing him to crack his head open.”

Nate nods. “And this would be the same Brad who does not actually have a concussion.”

“See!” Ray says, flashing a wide, tooth-filled grin. “It’s like we know each other!”

Ray drives to a towering hotel, tosses his keys at the valet like he’s actually a guest and ushers Nate inside. “It’s totally cool,” he assures Nate as they walk through a tiled entrance-way and then out past a fairly sizable and elaborate pool, complete with fake rocks. “I do this all the time. Friday nights they do this live performance thing with real Hula dancers, and the food is pretty spectacular.”

There are five long banquet tables set out on the sand in front of a makeshift stage decorated with flowers and long reedy grass. Ray finds them two empty spots and drops down onto the sand. “You’re gonna love this.”

Nate staggers back to his cabin at some ungodly hour, more than a little drunk, but with a camera filled with memories, most of which pertain to some pretty spectacularly failed efforts to hula dance. He collapses into bed and doesn’t have a single dream. 

When he wakes up the next morning, the sun is already up.


	2. Chapter 2

When Rudy and Nate arrive at the beach on Saturday, there is a boxy white Land Rover already parked. “That’s Brad’s car,” Rudy says, pushing his sunglasses up to rest on his head. “I suppose it’s about time you met the bunch.”

Nate isn’t exactly certain how he feels about meeting more people. There’s a jealous part of him that wants the easy camaraderie he has found with Rudy and Ray to remain unchanged. Both men sniping at each other and joking with Nate like there was never a time when they didn’t know one another. It reminds him of the one thing he misses about the Corps, which is his platoon. Granted, Ray even on his best day couldn’t hope to be as crass as some of the Corporals Nate had gone to war with, but sometimes it was a close thing.

Ray paddles over as Nate and Rudy get their boards out into the water. “So, it occurred to me last night that Rudy and I keep mentioning these people who you’ve never actually met. And that was weird, because it feels like I’ve known you for forever, and since I’ve actually, like, known Brad and Walt for forever…”

“Hey,” Nate blurts out as he catches sight of the other two men who swim up to meet them. 

It’s just; apparently he has already met the mysterious Brad.

The blond grins, once again straddling his board and looking down at Nate with that same infuriatingly relaxed confidence which is not at all how Nate feels, buffeted by waves and spitting out salt water every few seconds. 

“There’s a rip current along there,” Brad says, pointing the current out with a smirk.

Nate nods. “Duly noted.” There’s a faded bruise just above Brad’s left eyebrow, a fairly deep slice held together by a butterfly bandage bisecting the greenish purple mark. “How’s the head?”

Brad’s smile disappears in a flash and Nate finds himself the target of an actual glower. “It’s fine.”

“Yeah,” the other man says, looking a little sheepish. Nate assumes, by process of elimination, that this must be Walt. “We maybe asked that question too many times.”

“Just a bit,” Brad answers, still looking grumpy.

“I’m Walt,” the other man says, spreading his fingers wide as he waves. He’s tanned and his dirty blond hair is bleached from the sun. His face is round, his eyes bright, he’s smiling.

“Nate,” Nate says. “Nice to meet you. Both,” he tacks on, as an afterthought.

“Yeah, you too,” Walt says. “Ray’s told us a lot about you. You were in the Marines?”

It’s pretty much the last thing Nate’s expecting, and it’s the last thing he wants to talk about. He’d thought Ray hadn’t noticed the tattoo, and he’d gotten used to Rudy’s quiet understanding, rarely approaching the subject of the Corps and if so, only ever briefly and casually. Walt sounds like he has questions, and Nate honestly has no idea how he can answer them.

“Is this the start of a circle-jerk? Or are we actually going to surf at some point today?” Brad interrupts.

“I’m here to surf,” Walt answers easily. 

They orient away from the beach and start to work their way out. When Nate surfaces after the second wave, he catches Ray shooting a splash of water at Walt. “So where did you two princesses run off to for dawn patrol today?”

It’s not the first time he’s heard the term, but he still isn’t quite certain what it means. “Okay,” Nate asks. “What, exactly, is ‘dawn patrol’?”

Ray glances at him. “Going out and surfing at the ass-crack of dawn, because you’re a wheenus.”

Walt swats a handful of water at Ray’s face. “I’m not a wheenus.”

“You don’t even know what a wheenus is.” 

Brad rolls his eyes skyward. “Children, behave.” 

“Brad,” Walt says. “He called us _wheenuses_!”

“Bitch, please. You are so _totally_ a wheenus. If you looked the word up in a dictionary your face would be right the fuck there.”

Nate is choking down on his laughter; beside him Rudy is smiling like this level of idiocy might actually be good for the soul. Up ahead, Brad lets out a longsuffering sigh. “If it weren’t for surfing, I would never socialize with any of you people. We have nothing in common.”

“Well, excuse me!” Ray shouts after Brad as the other man paddles out to catch a wave. “Don’t be such a wheenus, Bradley!” 

Brad’s dry voice floats back to them as he pops up on his board. “Read a fucking dictionary, you inbred sister-fucking hick.”

Neither Brad nor Walt joins them in the sandbar. “Fucking ASP cocky sons of bitches,” Ray mutters. Then clarifies, “Professional know-it-alls,” before Nate has to ask. 

Nate frowns. “You’re not a professional surfer?”

Ray laughs happily. “No way,” he says. “I’m the guy that gets paid to keep fucking Colbert over there from falling apart in his own bathwater.”

For a second, Nate wonders if he’s got water in his ear because there is no way he heard that correctly. “You’re his PR person?”

Ray cackles. “Fuck yeah,” he says. “PR, personal assistant, therapist and wrangler. That’s me.” He shrugs a little awkwardly as he lies on top of his board. “I suppose, technically speaking, Walt’s not actually ASP, but he’s won a bunch of major surf competitions as a wild card entry. Personally, I think the only reason he doesn’t go pro is he likes it when people call him a ‘wild card’. He’s a fucking girl that way.”

Nate doesn’t ask how it’s possible for Ray to have so much free time if his job is actually as extensive as he makes it sound. Instead, he lets it go in favor of making an attempt at a wave. Nate's graduated from anthills to bunny hills according to Ray, and doesn’t always fall on his face, which is nice. 

Sometimes he just pitches off the side of his board.

“You have to let yourself go,” Rudy says, after checking that he’s okay.

Ray scoffs, “If he ‘let’s go’ any more he’ll be like a dolphin jumping over a board.”

Nate rolls his eyes. “I appreciate your devoted encouragement.” Ray threatens him with smoochy-lips, and things quickly deteriorate from there, until they are mostly floating around trying to drown one another. This is how most of his surfing lessons end.

Nate had hoped that no one had been watching him surf, but as they head back into shore Walt joins them and says that he’s looking pretty good for someone who’s just learning. Nate concentrates very carefully on paddling, and tries his best to ignore Brad. 

On his right, Brad sniffs and says, “You know what you’re problem is?” and doesn’t wait for Nate to ask. “You’re too tense.”

Rudy nods. “That’s what I keep telling him.” He turns to Nate and says, “You have to ride with the wave.” 

“The waves you’re taking-on are too small,” Brad says. “It’s not enough of a challenge.”

Nate snorts. “I can assure you, it’s plenty challenging.”

“No,” Brad insists. “It’s not. You’re stuck in your head, and that’s the last place you should be when you’re in front of the curl.”

Nate wants to say that he’s pretty sure Brad is full of shit. He’s too busy feeling like an idiot for spending the entire afternoon flailing on his surfboard while, apparently, Brad watched and formed opinions on exactly what he was doing wrong.

Ray’s no help at all. “You know,” he says. “As much as it pains me to admit. Brad may have a point. I mean, most of the trouble people have when they start out is they don’t have the muscles you need to actually get up and balance on your board. That’s not really your problem though, is it?”

“Not from where I’m sitting,” Brad says. 

Nate feels a rush of heat zing straight through him. He’s fairly certain even his arms have turned a vivid pink.

He blames sunburn.

_________________________________

When Nate stumbles out of his cabin the next morning carrying his running shoes, he comes to a halt and then, a moment later, laughs and shakes his head. The silhouette of the lone runner he’s spotted on more than one occasion is working its way along the beach but now, Nate knows exactly who it is.

It seems like he’s been bumping into Brad since he set foot in Oahu.

Shoving his shoes onto his feet, Nate steps off the front porch and waves. “Hey,” he says, when Brad heads up the beach toward him. “You don’t have to run back and forth in front of my place just to impress me.”

Brad makes a show of frowning and looking around. “Do you live somewhere around here?” 

He waits while Nate does a quick warm up. “I feel obligated to tell you that I don’t partake in any mad-dash runs over obscene distances carrying a back-pack that weighs three times as much as I do.”

Nate smirks. “Why, does is it look like that’s the kind of run I’m planning?”

“I’ve known exactly one Recon Marine, and based on what I’ve encountered with him, it’s a statement worth making.”

Nate wants to ask how Brad met Rudy. How they managed to become friends. There’s something about the other man, though, that makes Nate feel off-balance and unsure of himself in a way he just hasn't felt in a long time, and prevents him from getting the question out.

“Where are you from?” Brad asks as they start out.

Nate says, “Oceanside,” without even thinking. He doesn’t even realize he’s said it until he catches the sidelong look Brad throws his way. “Sorry,” Nate says. “I’m actually from Baltimore. I don’t know why I said that.” Brad’s eyes flick down to Nate’s upper arm where his T-shirt sleeve is obscuring his tattoo. 

Nate clears his throat. “How about you?”

“I’m from here,” Brad says, and then smiles a sharp little grin that shows his teeth. “The same way that you’re from Oceanside.”

Nate thinks that sometimes a place can transform a person so much they can barely recognize themselves anymore. It’s not necessarily bad; mostly it’s just life and the inevitable change that goes along with that. It’s what being in the Corps did for Nate, and he’s not done figuring out exactly who he’s become. He wonders what Oahu did for Brad that affected him the same way.

“I’ve lived here most of my life,” Brad continues. “Though technically I suppose you’d say I’m from San Diego.”

It feels like it could be an opening. A chance to get to know the other man, but Nate’s not entirely certain. The last thing he wants to do is pry. He thinks: ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained’ and asks, “How did you end up in Oahu?”

Brad actually smirks, his blue eyes cutting over to Nate and then quickly away. “I was looking for an authority I could respect. It was either the military or the waves.”

Nate blinks. It’s not the answer he was expecting. “What?”

“I went through a bit of a rebellious phase when I was a teenager,” Brad says. There’s something in the carefully casual tone he uses, paired with the suggestion of military school that leads Nate to believe Brad’s ‘rebellious phase’ went beyond the norm. “My parents gave me a choice: military school, or I could spend the summer with my uncle Daniel.”

“How is that a choice?” Nate wonders. “Hawaii or military school?”

Brad shrugs. “My uncle was a big corporate lawyer. He didn’t take shit from anyone, and every time I ever saw him he was an opinionated son of a bitch. I didn’t know he’d retired early and moved to Oahu. As far as I knew, either choice led to me being shipped off some place to be brow-beaten and criticized.”

“Wait,” Nate says. “Did you pick military school?”

“I was going to start in September, but my uncle showed up in June. He shoved a surfboard at me and took me out to the beach. Nothing like an entire day spent half-drowning, beating yourself black and blue just to stand up. It put me in my place. I was determined to conquer the waves,” he smirks. “That’s what I thought back then, anyway. Once summer holidays started my uncle took me back to Oahu, and then I just moved here. I’d fly back for holidays and visits when I could but, this was home.”

“And professional surfing?”

This time, Brad turns his full grin straight at Nate. “I didn’t wake up one morning and think that I could make a living out of it.” He shrugs. “To be honest, I didn’t even know it was a legitimate career option. But, you know, if you live on the north shore and you surf, at some point you get the notion to take on Pipe Masters. It’s just one of those instabilities of life.” 

They run to the rock ridge and back, and when Nate branches off toward the path to his cabin, Brad says, “I’ll see you in the afternoon.”

Nate’s grinning when he says, “Looking forward to it.”

_________________________________

“Sixty percent of surfing is waiting around for a decent swell,” Brad says. They’re all together, floating a ways out near the sandbar because the compromise Nate made was that if he has to take-on bigger waves, he’s doing it where he won’t crack his own skull open on a piece of coral. “Only ten percent of surfing involves any actual surfing.”

Nate glances over. “So what’s the other thirty percent?”

Brad meets his gaze and smirks. “Drowning.” 

“Those percentages are approximate,” Walt says, like that will make Nate feel better or something.

“Here,” Rudy says. “Take this one.”

Nate eyes the oncoming wave, but he doesn’t have time to waste. “Paddle, paddle!” Ray is chanting as Nate tries to get into position. There’s a sense of ‘rush rush rush’, and Nate pushes everything else out of his head as he concentrates on paddling. 

Then he pops up on his board and realizes the water cresting at his back is as tall as he is. _Stronger_ than he is.

The only thing keeping him upright is his precarious sense of balance, his muscles straining to hold him in place. “Don’t look now, but you’re actually surfing!” Ray shouts, but what Nate is actually doing is flashing back to that rush of adrenaline he had gotten so used to, bullets snapping and zipping past, his weapon trained and hands steady.

Combat without the loss of life, and minus the bloodshed.

It’s a rush. A pure surging moment of utter exhilaration free of everything else, anything else, except the focus it takes to keep himself upright and moving forward, keeping just ahead of the curl. 

He gets it. Finally, in a way he never did, tripping over the little blips of cresting water no higher then his own knees. _This_ is surfing. _This_ is why people do this, why Walt wakes up at the crack of dawn and rushes out. Why Brad will fall and get beaten bloody against the coral and _still_ want to go out.

This is what Nate has been missing without even realizing it. Since the moment he left the Corps. Since he left Iraq, really. This potent, utterly undeniable sense of ‘Yes, I am alive. Right here. Right now. Here I am.’

He reaches out with one hand, touches the rush of water just beside him with his fingertips. Thinks: “Jesus fuck, I’m actually doing this.”

Then promptly gets overtaken by the curl and slammed down beneath the water with a force that threatens to take his breath away.

Just like always, there’s a sense of panic that Nate overcomes after a moment. The Corps didn’t beat his fear of drowning out of him, but it did teach him to put that fear back in its place. Nate locks it down and starts to fight against the strength of the waves crashing above him, the force of the water breaking overhead pushing him down, the tug of the leash on his ankle the only connection he has to the surface, his surfboard floating somewhere above his head.

He’s not powerless. The waves are strong but he’s been in rougher waters before. It feels like a reminder. Something he knew before but had forgotten, the responsibility, the duty, the expectation seeping into him until it permeated his core, became a part of him that had felt like it had always been there.

Swimming, kicking his feet and cupping his hands, pushing his way back toward the surface, Nate remembers Brad’s words from that morning, _“I was looking for an authority I could respect. It was either the military or the waves.”_

Since Iraq, Nate feels like he’s been drowning in the rippling effects of his choices. At some point, he stopped being able to distinguish between what was actually within his control and what wasn't. What he could legitimately hold himself responsible for, and what was misplaced guilt.

Nate breaks the surface and reaches out automatically, throws an arm over his board and gives his back to the waves, shaking the water out of his hair as he starts kicking toward the group. “Akaw!” Rudy is shouting at him. “ _That_ was surfing!”

“That was incredible,” Nate says, realizing he might possibly be grinning like the wave knocked all the sense from his head, but not caring.

“Aw man,” Ray says. “Look at him. He’s totally amped. Good luck getting your board back from him, Rudy. He’s popped his cherry and now he’s a die-hard surfer.”

Nate laughs and hauls himself out of the water, straddling his board beside the others. Everyone is grinning along with him, laughing, talking about the waves and recounting their favorite rides. Nate feels like he gets it, now. After tackling what Ray solidly informs him was a ‘real wave’ and not any ankle or knee busters. He can’t help but notice that Brad is entirely silent, watching with a slight little quirk to his mouth but saying nothing as the others pat Nate on the back.

“Mine!” Ray calls and starts paddling after a wave. Rudy’s focus shifts to Walt and Nate kicks a little in the water, guides his board to drift closer to Brad.

He glances over, and then turns back to watch as Ray pops up onto his board, directing it up onto the curl of the wave until he’s leaning almost horizontal over the water. Nate has no idea how the guy can balance, but it looks cool. 

“Too tense,” Nate says, quietly. “Not enough of a challenge?”

Brad’s eyes glance over and then away. “I wouldn’t want to say something as clichéd as ‘I told you so’.”

Nate smirks. “But?” he prompts.

A splash of water strikes him on the chest. Nate glances down in time to spot another arch of water hit the same spot. He turns an accusing glare at Brad, who is innocently staring out at Ray but Nate can see his hands are cupped just under the surface of the water. As Nate watches, Brad’s hands shift, propelling another arching splash at Nate. 

Still giddy from the rush of riding that wave, Nate realizes suddenly, crystal clear and wide-open with possibility: ‘This is flirting.’ It’s different from the impersonal, light-hearted teasing when he first encountered Brad, floating in the rip current as Brad had grinned and said, ‘You don’t have to impress me.’ Nate isn’t sure what’s changed, or if anything even has, but it occurs to him that there is nothing to hold him back. 

He’s not a marine, he’s a civilian. If he wants to lean over and kiss Brad, there’s nothing to stop him. No rules, anyway. Everything else in Nate’s life since leaving the Corps has seemingly become more complicated. Relationships, at least, have become blissfully less so. The thought makes Nate flush.

“How did you even survive in Iraq?” Brad asks. 

Nate frowns. “What?”

“For all the sunblock you apply, you’re still the color of a ripe strawberry.” 

Nate’s mind replays how Brad’s voice carries the words ‘ripe’ and ‘strawberry’, starts looping them around and around in a way that is becoming increasingly obscene. He wonders if there is any special significance in Brad’s choice of words. Why ‘ripe’? 

It’s maybe been too long since he got properly laid.

“Christ,” Brad says. “Go back to shore and put on a fucking hat.”

Nate smirks. “If I put on a hat, it will just fall off when I take my next wave.”

“Go sit under an umbrella before you stroke out,” Brad says. 

Instead of getting caught up on that new turn of phrase, ‘stroke out’, Nate sends a splash of water in Brad’s direction.

“Hey, are you guys starting a water fight?” Walt calls, turning around on his board. 

Brad rolls his eyes skyward. “No, Walt. We were just discussing how, for an elite marine officer, Nate here is as delicate as a fresh little hibiscus blossom.”

Nate stretches his right leg across the distance, his toes curling over the top of Brad’s board as he pushes. “Hey,” Brad says, and then he pitches over, arms flailing out in an instinctive attempt to grasp onto something. He lands with a satisfying splash into the water. 

Brad comes up spluttering and glaring and his immediate response is to knock Nate off his board. The ensuing water fight is almost as exhilarating as surfing that wave had been.

_________________________________

Ray’s knock on his cabin door interrupts Nate’s usual evening indecision regarding where to eat. Most nights, Rudy is in charge of preparing dinner, and he’s really kind of phenomenal in the kitchen. Nate always feels a bit like he’s missing a really fabulous dinner when he leaves the resort. 

Then again, Dharma resort is an incredibly small and very private little place. The food is delicious and the atmosphere amazing, but there’s no live entertainment or dancing. It’s an aspect of traveling alone that Nate had never been forced to consider before: eating by himself. It turns out; he’s not a fan.

Consequently, when Nate answers the door, he’s grinning. “What the fuck are you so happy about?” Ray asks suspiciously, sticking his head into the cabin and peering over Nate’s shoulder. “Do you have some chick in here?”

“Are you not used to people being happy to see you, Ray?” Nate teases.

“Jesus, you’re perky.” He eyes the bathroom door, the closet, and the bed closely when Nate allows him through. “I’m feeling like seafood. Are you feeling like seafood?”

They end up at a tiny little seafood place that Nate doesn’t think he would have ever ventured into without the glowing recommendation that Ray gives it. As it is, he eyes the menu carefully and spends most of the time it takes to prepare their food trying to brace himself for the food poisoning he’s apparently just signed up for.

“See?” Ray grins when Nate takes a bite of the perfectly cooked mahi mahi with coconut and cloves. “You should have more faith in me.” Nate would apologize but he’s too busy devouring his incredible dinner. “That’s okay,” Ray says, magnanimously. “I forgive you.”

Over dessert, which is equally mouth-watering, Ray starts talking about Walt and Brad again and for once, Nate doesn’t feel slightly lost listening to him ramble. “You seriously need to watch Brad surf, that’s what I’m saying,” Ray says. “Watching Brad surf a wave is a thing of beauty and it doesn’t make me gay to say that, because _everyone_ is fucking thinking it. Just like thinking Rudy’s hot doesn’t make you gay.”

“Sounds to me like you’re protesting an awful lot.”

“Oh hell,” Ray says. “I’d try anything once. But once was enough.” He narrows his eyes at Nate. His next question is launched right when Nate has a mouthful of fruity pink cocktail in mouth, “Did Brad’s flirting freak you out or something?”

Nate’s not even sure why he half-chokes. “What? No.”

“Are you sure? Because I know the whole guy-guy thing is kind of a major no-no in the Army.”

Nate raises his eyebrows. “I was in the Marines.”

“Whatever.”

“I assure you, the whole ‘guy-guy’ thing, as you put it, is not a problem for me. It wasn’t when I was in the Corps, and it certainly isn’t now that I’m retired.”

Ray nods. “Well, good. Besides, I’m pretty sure that’s just how Brad communicates. Half the time I would bet good money that he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Though, y’know, if you want to hear his A-game material, you should hear him sweet-talking his surfboard, or his computer.” He nods pointedly, “I usually just give them some time alone.”

Nate’s not certain how to take that. On the one hand it’s a bit of a relief. If Brad isn’t actually flirting with intent, so to speak, then that sort of takes the pressure off. Maybe now Nate can stop getting tongue-tied whenever he’s faced with the toned expanse of golden skin, or Brad's piercing blue eyes, or perfectly bowed coral pink lips.

Nate has never been very good at lying to himself. He’s attracted to Brad, and the more time he spends with him, the more it seems to go beyond the physical. Not that he’s ready to pick out a ring or anything, but Nate’s been cut-free of his responsibilities. No more school, for a while at least. No job, nothing really to tie him anywhere. No expectations to confine him.

He reminds himself that he’s leaving in a week and that, even if Brad had been interested, it wouldn’t have been anything more than a holiday fling at best, and he’s not certain he’s ready to deal with that, not with his emotions all over the place the way they have been.

_________________________________

The thought sticks with him all through the next day. 

From the moment he pulls on his running shoes and steps out of the cabin to find Brad waiting for him on the beach. All through his morning spent snorkeling off the coast, and the afternoon lost in the waves and the surf.

It’s been over a half year since he left the Corps and this is the first time since then that Nate feels like himself. Like he has a place and knows what he’s doing. Like he's where he's supposed to be.

It goes beyond the meditation exercises Rudy has roped him into, to, “Begin the day on the right foot” according to Rudy. Nate doesn't have the heart to explain that he begins the day with a run or really, waking up in a cold sweat and scribbling in his notebook. The other morning he’d fallen asleep mid-chant, his legs twisted into a semi-painful pretzel. So far, Nate’s path to enlightenment has featured curious friends, surfing, flirting, and Brad.

Ray might have played it off as casual: Brad flirted with everything and everyone. That’s not how Nate’s reading things, though. It feels like there might be something there. A quiet ‘what if’ whispering on the periphery every time he looks at the tall blond, catches his eye, kicks him off his board and sends him spluttering into the water. Nate doesn’t want to overstep because his vacation days are numbered and steadily decreasing, and the last thing he wants is to do something that will mess up the ease with which they all come together.

He blames the alcohol.

That, and Walt, for suggesting they go out all together after a long day out on the water.

Also, the thin white button-down shirt Brad’s wearing, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, top few buttons left loose. It’s setting off the gold coloring of his skin, and Nate’s never seen Brad in anything but a T-shirt and boardshorts, sometime with no shirt at all. There is no way that a button-down should be more enticing, but it is. Nate’s eyes keep drifting to the black aviator sunglasses that are hanging from the V of the shirt, and he blames them as well.

That, and the way everyone in the bar is sort of helplessly staring at Brad. Little flickering glances of want that Nate keeps catching and resenting, while another part of him feels ridiculously pleased to be sitting at the table with Brad when everyone else is just glancing over and wanting. He joins Brad at the bar to help carry drinks and points out the attention Brad’s getting.

“This is a surfer bar, Nate,” Brad dismisses, his voice raspy in that way it has, a little more so since he’s speaking quietly. “They know who I am. That’s all.”

Nate shakes his head, leans over, pressing just a bit closer against Brad’s side as he says, “That’s not how they’re looking at you.”

The bartender starts setting out their drinks onto the two trays on the counter. Nate says, “I think it’s because you’re leaning against this bar with your ass sticking out, your shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease and your hair ruffled up like someone’s been running their hands through it.” Beside him, he’s aware that Brad has maybe stopped breathing, and it occurs to him that this has gone a little beyond the casual flirting they’ve maintained since they first met.

He could stop, but he doesn’t want to. So instead, he clarifies, “You look hot.”

The reaction isn’t what he was expecting. Though, thinking about it, Nate really can’t remember what he was actually expecting. He was _hoping_ that maybe Brad would smirk and volley something back, like maybe suggesting that Nate should stake his claim or something, and then they could make out at the bar.

Maybe that's the really tall blue drink that Ray had ordered for him and made him drink in under two minutes talking. In retrospect, Nate thinks that scenario sounds a bit Harlequin. Not that he would have minded if that’s what Brad did.

Instead, Brad does not move and he does not breathe. Nate squints, and then starts to smile. “Brad Colbert,” he says, feeling a little gleeful at the realization. “Are you actually _blushing_?”

Brad snorts but Nate can still see the pinkish flush in his cheeks. “You’re full of shit, Nate.”

“Argue all you want, I know a blush when I see one.”

Brad turns his head away, like not being able to see the blush will somehow mean it was never there. “You’re drunk.”

“Here you go!” the bartender says, setting both trays within reach. Nate’s focus is broken, and he’s a little frustrated with the interruption.

Glancing over at the trays, Brad starts to reach for one but Nate drops a hand down onto his arm. “Hey,” he says. “I’m not all that drunk.

“Right.”

Nate jerks his eyebrows up. “I’m serious. I’ll stop drinking right now, if you want me to.”

Brad’s eyes flicker over. He’s frowning as he asks, “Why would I want that?”

“So I can prove to you that I’d say it even if I was completely sober.” He smirks. “Which I would.”

Brad lets out a slow shuddery breath. “I need some air.”

It almost sounds like a question, which is why instead of backing off, Nate says, “If you leave this bar, I’m coming with you.”

They stare at each other, and Nate starts to wonder if time has actually stopped, if the world is as still as it feels because it feels like nothing else exists. Then Brad nods and says, “Okay,” and Nate remembers that they actually have friends waiting for them back at their table.

He clears his throat. “We should probably bring these over first.”

Brad nods. “Right.”

They pick up the trays and make their over to their table, Ray making grabby-hands at a slushy bright pink drink as Rudy and Walt shift the empties to make space, and then notice that neither Nate nor Brad have retaken their seats. “We’re uh,” Nate says, all his earlier confidence suddenly leaving him.

“We’re going to head out,” Brad says, after clearing his throat. “Nate’s wasted. Somebody should finish these,” he sets both his and Nate’s refills onto the table and shrugs. 

“Alright, my brothers,” Rudy agrees easily. Ray, however, is looking at them with narrowed eyes. “Have a nice night, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh man,” Walt says. “I’m totally sleeping in tomorrow!”

The bar is closer to Dharma Resort than to Brad’s house. Brad orients them toward the beach without hesitation, and Nate pulls off his sandals the moment they get to the sand. It’s dark and the white sand feels cool against his skin. He thinks that maybe this should be more awkward, walking quietly beside each other. Any other time, with any other person, Nate’s pretty certain he would feel compelled to speak, if only just to fill the air. He stays silent. There’s something easy about it, something natural. The two of them in the dark, walking. Like they know where they stand with each other without having to say a word.

Maybe he’s projecting.

There’s the sound of the waves, the lilting song of birds and the steady rhythm of bugs and creatures making sounds. He could make a joke about ‘long walks along the beach’, or start talking about his favorite movies, but instead Nate just shifts until he’s walking closer to Brad, sharing their heat.

Brad doesn’t move away.

He follows Nate back to his cabin, up the steps and through the door when Nate unlocks it. Nate thinks: “Okay, now things will start to feel awkward” but it doesn’t happen. He drops his sandals on the worn wood floor and reaches out and then Brad’s right there, standing pressed against him and they’re kissing and groping, pulling open each other’s shirts and undoing jeans and sharing breaths.

It’s not perfect. They get in each other’s way trying to strip each other’s clothes off, trip over their pants and topple onto Nate’s bed and end up laughing when they bump heads when they both try to move at the same time. It’s fumbling and uncoordinated in that way that most first-times are. Half-frantic with the want, the need, and still oh so good when Brad pushes in and starts to move. Electrified skin and shaky breaths and it takes them a bit to find a rhythm, find those spots on each other’s bodies that send them keening over the edge, but it’s never awkward.

Afterward, when Brad collapses onto the bed beside Nate, sighs and says, “I should get a cloth or something.” Nate flops an arm out, drapes it over Brad’s torso and grunts. Brad sighs and says, “Fuck it” and they both start to fall asleep. Nate wonders why this feels so easy. 

At any other time, Nate's fairly certain he would have started to wonder if it was a one-off; if his partner would climb out of bed right away, or be gone in the morning. This time, with Brad, Nate’s not wondering those things. He thinks maybe he’s simply too tired to be concerned, or maybe Rudy’s philosophy of ‘living in the moment’ has started to sink in.

Either way, when Nate jerks awake and gropes for his notebook he has to fight his way out from beneath Brad to get it. When he contemplates his morning run Brad says that, since he has no running shoes, they should get their morning cardio some other way.

When Nate goes to breakfast, Brad walks over with him, and it still doesn’t feel awkward.

_________________________________

On his twelfth day in Oahu, Nate wakes up on a California king bed, splayed out on pale blue sheets that feel softer than butter, and nearly breaks his neck climbing out of bed because he’s tangled up in the bedding. He’s also naked.

Nate makes use of the en suite bathroom before pulling on a T-shirt, and a pair of sweats, which he’s fairly certain belong to Brad. Then he finds his way out of Brad’s bedroom, through the open concept living room to the kitchen. When he walks in, yawning, Brad casts him an angry glance and tells him to be quiet.

“What are you doing? Stealth cooking?” Nate teases, meandering over and wrapping his arms around Brad’s hips. “Smells good.”

“I’m making loco moco,” Brad explains, his voice low, but not quite a whisper. “I _don’t_ want to wake Ray up.”

Nate snickers. “Brad, Ray’s all the way over in the guest house. How could he _possibly_ hear you in here cooking?”

Brad doesn’t answer, and eventually Nate relocates to one of the stools by the breakfast bar, where he can observe the preparation of breakfast and also monitor the progress of the coffee pot, which Brad has set brewing. 

He can’t make sense of the various ingredients Brad has out on the counter. Nate has encountered the name before on various breakfast menus around Oahu, occurring frequently enough for him to ascertain that it must be a native dish of some sort. Still, looking at the rice, eggs, refrigerated hamburger patties and what he is fairly certain is a bowl of homemade gravy, Nate can’t comprehend what it is he is about to be fed. Surely those ingredients cannot be blended into something actually appetizing.

Watching Brad cook, Nate remembers one of the first conversations he ever had with Rudy and finds himself wondering. “Rudy said most of his friends weren't breakfast-people. He was complaining he rarely has friends to cook for in the morning.” 

Brad shrugs as he begins cracking eggs sunny side up into a pan. “I’m usually out before dawn running, and then surfing. More often then not, Walt comes along. As for Ray, Cherie banned him from their kitchen when she realized if she didn’t set up some ground rules he’d never leave.”

Nate pours out two mugs of coffee and slides one just behind Brad’s elbow and goes to the fridge in search of milk. “Is that how Ray became a friend?”

“Exactly,” Brad says. “I didn’t establish the necessary ground rules, and he quite literally followed me home.”

Pouring milk into his mug, Nate glances over. “And so you put him to work.”

“It was a strategy I was testing in the hopes it might have the desired effect.”

“The desired effect being him leaving you in peace.” Nate takes a sip of coffee and slides his eyes closed. It’s not quite as good as Rudy’s, but it’s pretty damned good. “How’s that working out for you?”

As if to answer that precise question, Nate hears Ray’s voice, distant but growing closer. Brad can obviously hear it as well if the quiet curse is anything to go by. When Brad turns around, his expression is filled with regret. “I stopped making loco moco for this very reason.”

Nate tilts his head in the direction of the sound. A moment later, Walt comes into the kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I was coming across to say ‘hi’ and he left his shoes literally in front of the door and I tripped and he woke up.”

“Goddammit, Walt,” Brad mutters.

“Is he singing ‘the Locomotion?” Nate asks. He receives an answering ‘yes’ in stereo sound because Walt and Brad answer at the same moment with the exact same inflection of complete exasperation.

“You gotta swing your hips now!” Ray sings in a shrill soprano, shimmying his way across the hardwood. “Come on baby! Jump up, jump back! Well now, I think you’ve got the knack.”

“Ray!” Brad says, raising his voice in a solid commanding tone. “Shut the _fuck_ up.”

“Come on, Brad!” Ray says, drawing out Brad’s name in that way he sometimes does. “I’m so excited, I want to share to my joy with the world. I mean, when was the last time you made fucking loco moco?”

Brad pinches the bridge of his nose and tilts his head down, the very picture of a longsuffering soul. “I don’t know, Ray. When was the last time you sang that fucking song?”

“A _long time_ , let me tell you,” Ray says. He drops into a chair beside Nate, and nudges him with an elbow. “This guy makes _incredible_ loco moco. I don’t know why it is, but no freaking place on this entire _island_ makes it as good.” Pointedly, Ray looks at Brad’s back and raises his voice, “and then he just _completely stopped making it_!”

Walt snickers. “Because every time he did you would sing that stupid song and dance until he shoved a plate at you, you inbred hick.”

Ray’s answer is cut off because at that precise moment Brad drops a plate in front of him and Ray becomes distracted, scooping up a fork and digging in. “This food could literally kill you, that’s how good it is,” he says, his mouth full, the yolk of the egg mixing with the gravy, burger and rice. Nate’s still not buying it.

Walt shrugs. “It _could_ kill you,” he says. “It’s on the Cholesterol Hall of fame list. We’re not allowed to even mention it when Rudy’s around.”

“Rudy doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Ray says. Brad hands a plate over to Nate, and then one to Walt. A moment later, he switches off the element and settles on a bench to Nate’s right.

Slowly, Nate picks up his fork and takes a mouthful. His brain is telling him these flavors just should not work. His taste buds, however, are actually impressed. “This isn’t bad.”

“Isn’t bad,” Ray scoffs.

“It’s a good start to the day, if you’re out on the water early,” Brad says with a shrug. After a second, though, his eyes flicker over at Nate and there’s a shy sort of quirk to his lips. “It’s good that you like it.”

_________________________________

The trouble with staying over at Brad’s house is that Nate has no clothes there, and no mode of transportation to get back to the resort. Brad offers to drive him but Ray points out that Brad is actually expected at some interview that is not at all on the way to Nate’s.

“You have an interview?” Nate asks. He knows that Brad’s a good surfer, and that he does it professionally. He even knows that Brad won the Triple Crown just before Nate arrived on the island, which is apparently a big deal, and even that Brad’s sort of a celebrity in the right circles. Somehow, he never completely put that all together.

Brad shrugs. “For _Carve_ magazine.”

Ray nods. “Don’t _downplay_ it, you jackass. This is great! Get excited.” 

“Hey,” Walt says quietly, shoving Ray a little with his hand. The look he flashes at Ray says, ‘lay off’ more clearly than any words might have.

“Whatever,” Ray says, his tone changing, easing back a little. “This is the only time we could schedule it. It’s totally casual, anyway. No worries. Don’t be late.” Then he grabs up the keys and tilts his head at Nate. “You ready?”

“I’ll see you,” Brad says. Nate nods and there’s a moment where it feels like he should move forward and kiss Brad, or at least wish him luck, but Ray is looking at him, practically tapping his foot, so he doesn’t. It's only their second time together, so far the group dynamic doesn't seem to have been affected at all, but Nate doesn't want to do something that will make Brad uncomfortable, or start worrying that Nate's getting too involved or something.

As he follows Ray out the front door Nate hears Walt’s voice, “Wait, were those the keys to my truck? _Ray_?”

Though he expects the other man to run out and wrestle the keys back, there is no sign of Walt. Nate climbs into the passenger seat and Ray starts the engine of Walt’s truck, smirking and shaking his head. “I think secretly he doesn’t mind it.” Then they lapse into silence as Ray drives. 

Halfway back, Nate realizes that the only reason he isn’t giving voice to the questions he has about Brad’s interview, which he hadn’t actually heard anything about prior to this morning, and Brad’s professional life as a surfer, is because there’s a strange sort of tension inside the vehicle. 

He glances over and realizes Ray’s grip on the steering wheel is tense. Before he can voice anything about it, however, Ray says, “You said you weren’t interested.” 

The statement is so left field that Nate needs a second to figure out what Ray is evening talking about. He frowns. “I never said that.”

“Fuck you. It was _implied_.”

Shifting so he can face Ray as he drives, Nate asks, “How was it implied?”

Ray doesn't even glance at him, he keeps entirely focused on the road. “You said you had no problem with the flirting.”

“Yeah,” Nate says, still not getting it. “What should I have said? That I wanted to jump your friend’s bones?”

“Shit!” Ray squawks. “Don’t say shit like that. Brad’s like, my _brother_ or something. I don’t want to think about his sex life.”

Nate snorts. “Then why are we having this conversation, Ray?”

Ray rolls his eyes and shakes his head and keeps driving all at once. “Because Brad can’t do casual. Okay? He’s physically incapable, or something.” Nate wants to protest but Ray is apparently on a roll. “You know the only way Brad can keep things casual? Surfer groupies. People so stoked at the idea of getting a piece of the Iceman that they honest to god have no expectation of more than one night, or one weekend. It’s a foregone conclusion that they’ll be on their way, and they go and that’s that.”

Nate shrugs. He’s still not getting it. “I’m leaving on Sunday, if that helps.”

“Fuck you very much, Nate fucking Fick!” Ray snarls. “I’m leaving on Sunday,” he parodies. 

“Look,” Nate says. “Instead of swearing at me, why don’t you explain to me how this is different?”

“You’re not a groupie!” Ray says, like Nate should have figured that out already. “You guys run together and surf together and talk together. You come out with the gang and fit in like you could be a part of us, you know? That’s not what the others are like. They don’t hang around, they don’t do shit together. You’ve already made it personal.”

Okay, Nate can see that. But still, “We’re not dating, Ray. We’ve barely known each other for six days, and we’re both adults and this is not a romance novel. We’re not going to be declaring our love under a rose covered arbor after six days. Especially when, the majority of that time, we weren’t even actually sleeping together. I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. Brad’s feelings aren’t as delicate as all that.”

“Of course not,” Ray mutters. “Brad’s the Iceman. What could ever hurt him?”

Nate realizes that he has made a mistake, but he doesn’t understand when or how. He doesn’t understand how this is any of Ray’s business. He likes Brad, Brad likes him, and they've slept together. They enjoyed each other and hopefully, they can do it again. Maybe the ‘like’ on Nate’s part feels a bit like the rush-tug at the edge of a current, but he’s dated before, he’s familiar with that feeling.

Nate’s made no secret about the date and time of his departure.

_________________________________

Despite his confidence that Ray is merely being overprotective, Nate can’t clear his head.

The trouble is, he has no idea what he wants. He stumbled into Brad and they fell together so effortlessly, neither one of them has bothered to say anything definitive. Being together is easy, but Nate realizes this is partially because it doesn’t feel like he is ever actually going to be getting on a plane and leaving.

“Hey,” he says, catching Rudy as he’s clearing away the remains of breakfast.

“Aloha!” Rudy greets with a smile. “Having a good morning?”

“Yes,” Nate says, answering instinctively. He revises, “No, actually. I just…I’m gonna take the day. Explore the island.”

Rudy nods his head. “We’ve been surfing every afternoon when the waves allow it. It’s good to take a break.” He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, or why the sudden change, or if Nate wants company. Nate appreciates that the man always seems to just know, and never pushes.

Cherie is at the front of the main house, waving off a couple who are loading bags into a taxi cab, presumably en route back to reality. Nate knows he’s in trouble when the sight of it makes his chest ache. 

“Nate, how are you?” Cherie asks, smiling.

“I’m okay.”

Her eyes flicker over his expression, then to the backpack he has, slung over one arm. “Exploring?” When he nods she says, “Any place particular?”

“No,” he says. He’s hoping that a long walk will maybe clear his head some. It feels like just the other day bombs were still exploding all around him, and then suddenly everything went quiet and the world declared peace. He wonders what’s left him feeling more off-balance: leaving the Corps, or realizing that maybe things between he and Brad aren’t so clear-cut. 

That maybe, Nate’s not really done with Oahu.

“Actually,” he says. “Which way to Pipeline?”

Cherie only gives him directions after he promises that he’s not planning to surf there. It’s just, that it's the last site of the Triple Crown competition and he’s heard some stories about it and it’s strange that he has never actually seen the water there.

The Banzai Pipleline, he discovers, is pretty intimidating, even standing on shore. The waves breaking are massive and he immediately decides that everyone attempting to surf there is insane. He tries to imagine what Brad would look like on those waters, and then promptly decides no, he _doesn’t_ want to imagine that as a surfer gets solidly plowed down by a towering wave and slammed beneath the surface. There’s a bit of a panic when the guy doesn’t rise up anywhere, but then his friends find him and he’s mostly okay, if a bit cut up.

It’s pretty much what must have happened to Brad to give him that cut, still healing on his head. Nate thinks about the other day, waking up in bed and tracing the lines on Brad’s body, pale strips on tanned skinned. He remembers shaking his head, “You have more scars than I do, and I went to war.”

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting watching the surfers and the waves when someone calls his name. When he looks up, Walt is standing there beside his surfboard, dripping and smiling. “Hey,” Nate says, gesturing for Walt to sit. “Looks rough out there.”

“Naw,” Walt says. “Today First Reef is weak like a kitten.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Rudy said you’re taking a break this afternoon.”

“I’m here as a tourist,” Nate dismisses casually. “Surfing’s too stressful. I need to lie on a beach and sip little umbrella drinks.”

Walt nods distractedly. “I thought maybe it had something to do with whatever Ray said to you on the drive back.”

Nate has known Walt for about as long as he’s known Brad. By far the most quiet of the group; somehow Nate had never anticipated that Walt might be so perceptive. 

Walt’s gaze is steady as he regards Nate, and finally Nate sighs, and rubs his brow. “I think he’s been warning me off from the moment he realized that there was something there.”

Walt shrugs. “You’d have to be blind not to spot the chemistry between you and Brad.”

Nate snorts. “Ray's overprotective.” He can hear the doubt in his tone. The question.

“He’s not,” Walt says. He sighs. “Look, maybe Ray has no trouble trotting out Brad’s history and explaining why things are the way they are, but I won’t do that. It’s not my place. If Brad hasn’t said anything then,” he shrugs. Nate wonders if he should mention that Ray said nothing concrete, no real explanation about anything. He’s not sure whether he’d be defending Ray or himself, either. He doesn’t have the chance to say anything.

“Brad’s nickname is Iceman,” Walt says. “He’s been in the surf-scene so long, he’s sort of a legend. I remember being a teen, just getting into surfing, and Brad wasn’t much older than me. He drew a lot of attention because he was young and was getting these amazing rides, still a wild card entry but taking the competition. You know? Anyway,” he says, shaking his head. “I used to read just about every surf magazine I could get my hands on, and there was this article in Surfer that gave him his name. It talked about this absolutely massive wipeout Brad had at Shipsterns, in Australia. Pretty much everything that could have gone wrong did, except that he didn’t get eaten by a shark, which can happen.”

Nate is not at all amused. Walt shrugs. “Some idiot dropped in on Brad’s wave, and Brad had to push back and he got caught inside, which is a bad thing. The water broke right overhead and knocked him down, his leash tangled around the rocks, and Brad got sliced up and knocked around pretty bad, not to mention turned around. Basically, it was a mess.”

“But,” Nate says, because he can actually feel an edge of concern start building, which is a little ridiculous. “Obviously he survived.”

Walt nods. “Well, obviously. The point is, Brad almost drowned out there, and the reporter who did the interview made this joke like, obviously Brad wouldn’t ever be taking on Shipsterns again, and Brad is sitting there, black and blue and still in a hospital bed and he said that he was going again just as soon as he got released.” 

Walt shrugs. “He did, too. The reporter stuck around, and took a bunch of shots of Brad’s ride. Y’know, most people would take a break for a bit or something after an experience like that. Get a change of scene. Not Brad, thought. People started calling him ‘Iceman’ because he was fearless, the surf he’d take on, the way he'd surf it, everything.”

They sit there, watching the crowds of people in the water and on the sand, watching the enormous break of the waves, and Nate can’t imagine how he’d react if something like that happened to him. Probably there would be a period, if only a small one, where he honestly would consider never touching a surfboard again. Even now, knowing the rush of a proper wave.

“My point is,” Walt says. “He’s got this aura, and people tend to forget that he’s just a guy. He plays it up, too. If you give him a choice, he deflects. Always. Everyone thinks that he’s easygoing, the laidback surfer cliché, just taking hits and moving on, easy as you please, because he makes jokes and plays things down. But that’s not how he is. When Cherie met Brad, she called him a duck.”

Nate gets what Cherie meant. Calm as you please on the surface, kicking to stay afloat underneath. He starts to rethink those moments when Nate had trusted Brad’s easy confidence, the casual shrug, the humor. He’s as guilty as those people Walt mentioned, getting taken in by the deflection, the humor. 

“So Ray is a self-appointed shield.”

Walt nods. “Ray handles things by sticking his nose into everything, talking to people to sort them out, that kind of thing. Always looking out for Brad, whenever he can, because that’s just the way it is with them. They look out for each other.”

“So," Nate says, as everything begins to fall into place. "I got warned off because I’m a tourist.” 

Walt shrugs, his shoulder rolling in a small, careless circle. “Well, yeah.”

Nate glances over. “What about you?”

Walt grins, a sort of ‘you caught me’ expression, wry and pleased at the same time. “I care about Brad, sure. I guess I don’t interfere like Ray does, because I don’t want to mess up something that might be good for him. You know? At a certain point, thinking and planning and all of that isn't going to help anymore. Sometimes, you just have to go ahead and do it, and see where it takes you.”

Nate grins. “You sound like Rudy.”

“Naw,” Walt says. “I sound like a surfer. Stick around much longer and you might start sounding like one, too.”

_________________________________

Brad is standing on Nate’s porch when he gets back to his cabin. Nate halts, his feet bare, sandals grasped loosely in one hand, staring at Brad who is wearing a pair of navy boardshorts and a light blue T-shirt. His sunglasses perched on his head, the breeze ruffling his blond hair. He looks casual and relaxed and impossibly attractive. 

“Hey,” Brad says. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be back…”

“I was walking,” Nate blurts. He makes a gesture back along the beach, forgets he’s holding his sandals and almost drops them. “I just,” he pauses, shifts forward until he’s standing at the bottom of the steps. “I ended up running into Walt. We talked for a bit.”

Brad stares at him, his face inscrutable. “Okay.” Then clears his throat, his gaze shifting away and then back. “Listen, I just…”

“No, wait,” Nate says. He spent pretty much the entire day trying to figure this out, and if they’re going to talk about it, then Nate is damned well going to say everything he’s figured out, or failed to figure out, or whatever. 

What Brad decides he wants to do with that is out of Nate’s hands, but he refuses to lose something that feels like it might actually be important to him because of a miscommunication, or a misunderstanding, or because they were both just too fucked up to figure this shit out. 

He says, “I have to say something first.”

They stare at each other for a second, and Nate holds Brad’s gaze, unflinching. Brad makes eye contact the way some of Nate’s Marines used to. Like it’s almost a dare, like he's reading Nate's entire life story in that moment. That’s fine, because Nate never blinks first, and he’s not backing down.

Brad nods, but doesn’t say anything.

Slowly, Nate steps up onto the porch and licks his lips. His stomach is twisted into knots. He says, “I don’t know what this is, or even what your thoughts are about the other night, but” he hastens to add, when it seems like Brad might actually answer him. “I need to say this either way so just…” he trails off, tries to sort out what it is exactly that he intends to say, and then just figures enough is enough. 

Sometimes no amount of planning is going to get you through something. 

Sometimes you just have to go ahead and do it.

“It wasn’t a one-off, for me,” Nate says. He catches Brad’s blue-eyed gaze and jerks his chin up because he’s not used to talking like this, not used to putting himself out there with so little to go on. He wants to say that being with Brad feels easy, feels _right_ and Nate’s been missing that feeling for so long, he’s not ready to give it up so soon. He’s aware that he’s maybe a little crazy, like saying any of this at all will just seem too soon. It doesn’t matter. He has to say it anyway. 

“At the bar I wasn’t just looking to get laid, or even trying to find some kind of holiday-fling to go home and have as this great story. The hot surfer guy I fucked in Oahu…”

Brad smirks. “Did Ray make you watch _Blue Crush_ again?”

“What?” Nate frowns, realizes what he just said and laughs. “Jesus, did I just instigate some clichéd Hollywood dramatic moment?”

Brad tilts his head to the side, like he's considering. “I think you did.” 

“I assure you, it was entirely unintentional.” He frowns. “It doesn’t make what I’m trying to say any less true, though.” Nate licks his lips again and pushes on. “Being here in this place. Hanging out with you guys, Rudy and Walt and even Ray. Being with you. It feels like the first time I’ve been on solid ground in a while.”

He shrugs. “I’m here on holiday and I don’t actually want to leave. I’ve got an airline ticket in my bag, and my reservation ends at the end of the week. I’m pretty sure Rudy’s got someone taking over my cabin pretty much the moment I leave it, and I _know_ all of that, but that doesn’t make this any less true.” He takes a breath, lets it out and says, “I’m not done with this yet. You and me, whatever it is. Wherever it’s going, if it’s even going anywhere…”

Pursing his lips, Nate adds, “If you were about to tell me that we should forget last night, and the night before… or that it was just a good time and we should put it behind us, I can do that.” He knows he can. They haven’t known each other very long; Nate hasn’t fallen in love or anything. He can step away if he has to, go back to casual if that’s what Brad wants. “I just thought I should tell you.”

The quiet stretches. Nate’s grateful for the chirrup of birds and the wind and the waves because at least the moment doesn’t seem entirely stifling. He’s standing there waiting and Brad doesn’t seem compelled to speak.

But then finally, he does.

“Actually,” Brad says. “I came here to see if you wanted to get some dinner.”

He plays it off casual, and for a second Nate falls for it. Feels a little embarrassed that he laid himself out there for what appears to be no reason at all. Then he catches himself wondering if it’s a casual dinner, or a date-dinner, and it's right about then that he realizes what Brad’s trying to pull.

“Bullshit,” Nate says, smiling. “How long were you standing on my porch, Colbert?”

Brad shrugs. “It doesn’t matter now,” he says. “After that impassioned speech, I’m feeling a little light-headed, I think you might have genuinely swept me off my feet, which means that you can buy me dinner.”

It turns out Brad’s friends know him very well indeed. Nate’s immensely pleased that Ray and Walt had no qualms sitting him down and talking to him the way they did, because he’s sure he would have misunderstood this whole thing otherwise. Now though, Nate's pretty sure he knows exactly what he needs to say. “Fuck that, you’re making me dinner.” He raises his eyebrows. “I have it on good authority that you can actually cook.”

“When the occasion calls for it,” Brad says with a careless shrug, like it's just dinner that they're talking about, and not the difference between casual and something else. Something intimate and full of potential.

“Well,” Nate says. “It calls for it. Just let me get changed.” He pulls his keys from his pocket and turns toward his door, only to be stopped by a hand ghosting over his upper arm. 

Nate pauses, glances over and waits. Brad says, “I just…” but can’t seem to find how to continue. Instead, he presses a careful kiss against Nate’s lips, almost shy. It’s answer enough.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a stack of postcards sitting on Nate’s side table next to the coffee maker, a little four-by-six inch image of a beach at sunset catching his eye as he comes out of the shower toweling his hair. It makes him pause.

The stack is small, enough to send to each of his sisters, his parents, a few close friends. Though the images on each card vary, the writing is mostly the same scrawling font that Nate remembers being on the cover of the trip folder he had opened on Christmas day. Each message essentially saying the same thing, often in precisely the same way: Greetings from the Aloha State.

Tossing his towel onto the bed he picks up the cards and flips through them, remembers he had somewhat impulsively purchased them on his second day intending to write and post them so that they'd arrive before his trip concluded. He’d gone surfing with Rudy instead. Now there doesn’t seem like much point to it. He’s leaving in two days. At this rate, he’ll be back long before the postcards reach anyone.

Clearing his throat, Nate drops the cards back to the table and pulls on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, glancing at the clock. It’s too early for dinner, and Walt had more or less kidnapped Brad on some sort of secret mission that neither man would tell Nate about. It has left him feeling bereft, which makes him wonder how he’ll adjust to life back at his parent’s house without the water and the waves, without Ray’s constant teasing, Rudy’s patient presence, Walt’s steadfast support and Brad...

Two weeks, and Oahu feels like an integral part of him.

Releasing a whooshing breath, Nate grabs his backpack and the postcards, slips his feet into a pair of flip flops that he stole from Walt the last time he was over at Brad’s house, and heads out. He has no destination in mind, no sense of what he's doing outside of walking.

He walks for over two hours, stopping when he reaches a rocky high point overlooking a narrow strip of beach that is deserted save for a woman throwing a bright neon pink tennis ball out into the water for her dog to retrieve. He's far enough away that he can't be certain what type of dog it is, but he suspects it is a chocolate lab, maybe some kind of mix breed. His feet hurt from hiking rocky, uneven paths in flip flops and the location is peaceful, so he slides his backpack off his shoulders and settles onto a shaded spot of grass.

Eventually, he pulls out the postcards, flipping one over and rifling through his bag until he finds a pen. Writing has become a force of habit, a stabilizing influence that helps him clear his head. He fills out the first card mostly just because it's the only available paper in his bag. 

That morning he and Walt had gone out on a tiny white catamaran with a blue and yellow sail. They spent more time hanging off the side of the boat than sitting in it, and when they came back to shore Ray had accused them both of being goat boaters and refused to speak to either of them, but Nate had enjoyed it. The wind rushing and pushing at them as they skimmed and bounced across the water. He writes about it on the back of the first card, trying to be succinct. When he reads it over he thinks it sounds a bit like an after-action report. Clinical and precise, no real sense of the experience, or how it had affected him. He tries to imagine his mother reading the postcard, wonders if she'd sigh and despair of his ever really leaving the Corps behind. Carefully, Nate tucks that card back into his bag, tells himself he hadn't meant to send it anyway. 

Despite this thought he finds himself picking up another card. This one has a cartoonish map of the island on it and he marks the places he's been onto it, drawing two stick figures in kayaks around the Molokua islands, a sailboat along the northwest shore around the area Walt and he had been that morning. He estimates the location of the beach where they all surf and draws a little figure of himself mid-fall off a surfboard, and a scuba diver out where he'd gone on that tour. By the time he's done, there are clumps of little stick figures all around the island and the surrounding water. He flips it over onto the back and tries to summarize his adventures, ends up talking about the various scrapes and bruises he's earned during his surfing efforts and ends by saying that he's not even surfing in particularly treacherous waters, or near any sharp rocks. When he reads it over it doesn't sound like a report, certainly it contains too much humor to be acceptable in the Corps, and he addresses it to his younger sister before he realizes what he's doing.

Just because it's addressed doesn't mean he has to send it, he justifies to himself as he picks up another card. It gets easier to fill up the blank spaces the more he writes. He thinks about little snippets of his time in Oahu that his dad or big sister might appreciate and jots them down, and when he's finished he realizes that sometime during his writing the woman and her dog had both left the beach, and the sun has begun to set. Probably the others will be back at Dharma Resort looking to go out someplace for the evening.

Nate stows his gear in his bag, stands up and slings it over his shoulder. Then he stops. The neon pink tennis ball the dog had been chasing lies forgotten on the shore. As he watches the waves pick it up, tossing it back and forth and then, steadily and surprisingly quickly, it begins to drift, caught up in a current that pulls it along the shoreline until it's far enough out that Nate can't even make it out anymore.

There's a strange constriction in his chest that he doesn't quite understand. He catches himself staring out at the water and shakes his head. Readjusting the strap on his bag Nate turns and walks back the way he came.

_________________________________

The pink tennis ball stays in his head all night. They go out on an evening cruise that features dinner and dancing, and Nate laughs at Ray's humorous efforts to dance, shakes his head in fond amusement when a smiling redheaded girl asks Ray to dance a slow song with her and suddenly Ray is entirely competent, smooth and suave and oddly formal. A perfect gentleman.

"How much of the Ray Person we know and love is bullshit?" he wonders aloud, watching Ray dip his partner and bring her back up. 

Walt shrugs. "All of it, of course."

Cherie coaxes him away from the table not long after that. He keeps up with her and avoids stepping on her toes, and she makes light-hearted jokes and tips her head back when she laughs, but after two songs she says, "You're distracted this evening. What is it?" Nate doesn't know how to answer.

There's a glint of knowing in Cherie's eyes as she tips her head to side. "You're thinking about Sunday. About leaving here." He nods his head and she pats his arm gently, nods. "When Rudy was a Marine and he went to Afghanistan I worried all the time," she confides. "That's life. You can't turn it off. I knew he was good at what he did and I knew it was what he wanted, but I didn't like the distance between us, the uncertainty." She smiles. "The trick isn't to stop that wondering nervous part of yourself from doing what it does best, because that's just what being human is. The trick is to always have more faith than you have fears."

She lets him go at the end of the song and rather than rejoining the table where Walt and Ray are laughing at whatever Rudy is telling them, he slips outside. It isn't his intention to go in search of Brad but he finds him almost immediately. When Nate steps closer Brad turns around, leaning back against the rail as he smiles, a lazy little quirk in his lips. Just like that the answer hits Nate.

Whatever he started here in Oahu, not just with Brad but also with the friends he has made and surfing -- all of it -- it's a beginning, the start of his life after the Corps, a reminder that the best and most meaningful part of his life isn't over before he's even reached thirty. Nate isn't sure that he won't slip back into old habits when he goes home. He isn't sure that this new part of himself that he's just discovering is established enough to survive away from the place and the people that brought it out in him.

"Hey." He rests his arms over the rail on which Brad is leaning, pressing slightly into the other man's side as he looks up at the bright stars overhead. "Come back to my place tonight?"

"Alright." 

Nate's certain that those aren't the last words he says that evening, they both go back inside and rejoin the group; they both dance, and there's the drive back where Cherie and Rudy join Nate in Brad's truck while Walt drives Ray back to the house. The drive isn't passed in silence but Nate can't remember saying anything after that moment on the deck. He can't remember Brad saying anything. They were the only words that meant anything, that mattered until later, after Brad follows him into his cabin and they kick their shoes and clothes aside, topple in a heap of damp naked skin, sliding hands and gasping mouthes onto the bed and Brad says, "I want to be inside you."

The rush-tug feeling in Nate's chest is more than familiar now. He doesn't know how he can feel as if he is being swept away and also that he has finally found solid ground after years of searching, but that's how it is; like Brad is at once the current and the shore.

Later, lying in a tangle of sheets, his arm thrown carelessly over Brad's torso, Nate asks, "Do you think Rudy would kick out whoever he has booked in my room after Sunday and let me stay?" 

"Hm." Brad doesn't open his eyes but the corner of his mouth quirks up at the thought. "Planning on extending your stay?"

"Yeah. If I could."

They lay there, silent, nothing but the rumble crash of the surf along the beach, lulling and constant. When Brad opens his eyes the moonlight catches on them, highlights a half-moon of bright blue. "I have a house. There is more than one guest room. Not to mention the guest _house_."

Nate wonders if Brad thinks that they're talking in hypotheticals. He lets his fingertips sketch an idle pattern on the skin of Brad's chest and wonders if he should admit that he means it. "It doesn't have to be _'moving in'_ ," Brad continues, his voice purposely casual. "It would be too soon for that anyway. But, you could move in. You're there almost every night anyway, I wouldn't mind. Ray and Walt both live my place; it's sort of a surfer thing -- house sharing, I mean. I'm used to it." 

Nate props his head up on his hand. "This doesn't seem strange to you?" 

"What?"

"How easy all this has been. How we just…" 

Brad licks his lips. "Has it been easy?" His voice is hushed, something tight and cautious in the tone. He shrugs. "Rudy might be seriously fucking gay, trotting around the island in those hideous daisy duke shorts of his but I remember he told me, a long time ago when we first met, that there's a purpose for every person you meet. That some people will test you, some will use you, and some will teach you." When Brad pauses Nate shifts a little more until he's leaning close, his hands braced on either side of Brad's body, skin to skin. Brad meets his gaze and raises his eyebrows. "But most importantly, some will bring out the best in you."

Nate smiles, drops a lazy kiss onto the center of Brad's sternum because he can imagine Rudy saying something like that, but it means something that Brad has told him this, that's he's said this. There's a bubbling roil of emotion threatening to pull Nate under, and the kiss is simple and brief but it's all he can do. The only coherent way he has to express himself.

After a moment, Nate clears his throat and smiles. "I'd like to point out the hypocrisy of your calling Rudy gay, considering where your dick's just been."

Brad rolls his eyes. "You've seen the shorts, Nate. You can't argue with me on this. I know we're in agreement here."

_________________________________

The next morning Nate cancels his return ticket and then phones his mother. Her voice is smooth and familiar and he presses the phone to his ear, closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the wall. “Nate, honey?” she prompts, when he falls silent.

“You were right, mom.” 

He can hear her take a long breath and knows that she’s steeling herself in case he’s in some kind of trouble. It’s been so long since he’s needed her to fight his battles for him, but he appreciates that she’s still ready if he needs her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he assures her. “It’s just… I needed this. I didn’t realize how much.” His flexes his hand around the receiver, licks his lips and says, “I cancelled my return ticket. I’m going to stay a while longer.”

It falls quiet again. “Do you need some company? I’m willing to suffer through a vacation in Hawaii. That’s how much your mother loves you.”

He grins and then huffs a laugh. “I’m fine. I’ve met some people down here, actually. Rudy, the guy who owns the resort, he’s a retired Marine.”

“I know.” Of course, she would. He wonders how worried she had to be to go ahead and research and plan this entire trip. There aren’t adequate words to express how grateful he is to his mother, and for just one second the wave of emotion that overtakes him is overwhelming, is almost too much. “Nate?” 

“Yeah.” He wipes at his eyes. “I’m here, it’s just … _Thank-you_. I would have just kept slogging through and never…”

“Nathaniel,” she says, her voice suddenly wry. “You would have ‘slogged through’, as you put it, and sorted yourself out while you were working on your education. That’s what you do, what you’ve _always_ done. But I wanted you to know that you don’t always have to push yourself. You don’t have to ‘make do’. Sometimes it’s just as important to sit back and take a breath, and let the world catch up to you.”

She asks what he’s been up to and he tells her about his morning runs along the beach, yoga with Rudy, sailing with Walt and scuba diving. He talks about surfing and how horrible he is at it, that he has some of the best teachers possible but he doesn’t think he’ll ever learn because somehow they end up having water fights and floating around talking but that every time he gets up on his board he can’t think of any place he’d rather be.

He says, “Mom, I’ve met someone” and his mom tells him that she knows, that she can hear it in his voice when he talks. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” she says. Her voice sounds warm and soft, like she's smiling. “You don’t always have to.”

When he hangs up he walks to the main house and finds Brad sitting at a table, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee like he’s found the Holy Grail. His eyes are closed and Nate can tell that he’s trying his best to ignore Ray and Rudy, who are bickering over the buffet table. 

When Nate walks up to him Brad pushes out a chair with his foot without opening his eyes. “When do you head back?” 

Nate waits until Brad glances over at him. “I don’t know.”

They lock eyes for a moment, and then Brad nods almost to himself. “Walt’s meeting us after breakfast. We’re heading up to Manoa Falls.”

Nate smiles. “Sounds good.”

_________________________________

Walt is standing at the front of the resort, grinning, with his arm around a surfboard. Brad's gaze shifts over to Nate and then quickly away, which is the first clue he has that something is up. The second is Ray saying, "Shit, Brad. Weren't your supposed to text him?"

"Text me what?" Walt asks.

Brad shakes his head. "Nothing."

The smile drops from Walt's face and his gaze becomes suddenly accusing. "What?" 

Brad sighs. "Nate's extended his trip."

Nate feels like he's missing something, especially when Walt sort of droops. A moment later, though, he recovers and his smile returns. "Well, that's fine. It's all good. Just means he can put her to use sooner rather than later, right?" Then he turns to Nate, thrusting the board he's holding forward as he asks, "Do you like it?"

Nate steps forward to get a better look. The board is colorful: greens and yellows and blues and filled and from a distance it looks like bands of color, thick bands and slim bands. Up close, Nate can see that there are long stripes of triangular patterns on the far left striping down the length of the board. Along the curve of the nose is a complicated network of interlocking images that takes him a moment to decipher: a stylized hibiscus flower that's small and half hidden by the veritable maze of images. He picks out a neat rendering of the USMC emblem, as well as what looks like a trireme ship. There are smaller designs connecting a mishmash of petroglyph images: a sun, an anchor, a warrior, a footprint.

The truly eye-catching part, however, is the bottom portion of the board where a stylized warrior strikes a powerful stance, arms above his head and legs apart. There is a sweep of geometric designs, thick at the bottom left and arching up around the figure, tapering off. Little curls following along the sweep of the line, and Nate realizes the pattern is meant to be a wave arching upward.

Ray crosses his arms and tilts his head to the side, carefully considering. "Personally, I think it's gay."

Nate is a little speechless. He says, "I don't understand," because the USMC logo makes him fairly certain that Walt didn't just go into a surf shop and pick him out a board. It feels personal in the same way the paddle his platoon presented him with upon leaving the Corps had felt personal.

But somehow, it's still a shock when Walt answers, "I made it." 

"You…" Nate blinks. "Really?"

Walt shrugs. "It's a hobby that, you know, turned out to be pretty lucrative. I had a board prepped already and then I just thought, y'know, sort of a 'going away' present, so you'd remember us."

Ray says, "Gay" again, but Nate isn't paying attention.

"Brad helped," Walt's quick to point out. "Well, I mean, I guess he knows you better than I do. He had a few suggestions. But the art and everything..." Walt shrugs again.

"Walt… I don't even know what to say." 

Ray throws his hands up in the air. "Fucking _hug_ already! _Geez_."

Nate's laughing when he throws an arm over Walt's shoulder, and his 'thank-you' doesn't feel like enough, but Walt grins as if it is. As Nate takes the board, carrying it back toward his cabin for safe-keeping he hears Walt say, "I can't believe you thought that board was gay! You made me paint giant pink flowers on yours!"

Ray's answer carries easily over the increasing distance. "I wanted to see if you'd actually do it."

"Of _course_ I'd do it. You were _paying_ me to design a board for you."

"And I can't believe you made me _pay_ for my motherfucking board!"

"Surfboards, as well as my own personal time, are not cheap. Since it wasn't a gift I had every right…" but whatever Walt continues on to say is lost as Nate cuts down to the sand.

Brad appears on the front porch as Nate is settling his gift securely inside. "I'm glad you like it."

"I'm glad I stayed," Nate says. It wasn't what he'd intended to say, but he doesn't regret it. It's the truth, after all, and it earns him another surprisingly shy smile, which is followed by a lingering kiss.

_________________________________

On Sunday, Nate checks out of the Dharma Resort and drags his suitcase to the front entrance where the white Defender is already waiting. His surfboard is already stashed at Brad's place, which means that there is only one small bag and his carry-on luggage to toss into the backseat. When he closes the door Cherie is standing right there, waiting to throw her arms around him. Nate laughs as he embraces her. "I'm seeing you tonight."

"Oh, I know. But I never miss an opportunity." She flashes a coy little wink as she steps back. "Brad, sugar, stop hiding behind that big truck and come say 'hello'."

Rudy stands there, smiling good-naturedly as Cherie wraps her arms around Brad's shoulders and drags him into a hug too. "Nate," he says. "I'm glad you're staying around for a bit, brother. We'll see you both tonight."

They shake hands and then Nate climbs into the front passenger seat and drags the door closed. "Sugar?" he says, teasingly. The first time Cherie had called Brad that, Nate had thought it was a generic pet name between friends, but he's heard it enough to realize that Cherie has nicknames for everyone and not all of them are as affectionate as the one she reserves for Brad.

Brad flashes a grimacing look in his direction, which Nate knows means the blond is secretly pleased. "Don't ask me. If I could change it, I would." Starting the engine, Brad shifts gears and pulls out of the Resort's driveway.

It's not the first time he's been to Brad's place but this time he's not a guest staying a few hours or spending the night. This time he grabs his luggage out of the backseat and stands aside as Brad unlocks the front door, smirking as he says, "I suppose you know your way around. Make yourself at home." 

Nate's not the only one feeling it, which becomes obvious when Brad halts right in the front entrance, licking his lips and looking awkward. "You're welcome to share my room, but there are plenty of guest rooms around, if you want. Feel free to take your pick."

Nate tugs on the edge of Brad's T-shirt, dragging him forward into a brief kiss. "I don’t." 

"Don’t?" Brad asks, blinking.

"Want a guest room."

There are empty drawers in Brad's dresser and space in the closet, not that Nate has much that he has to hang. Not that Nate has much at all, in fact. He unpacks what he does have and tries to calculate how far his savings will last him. This is the most impulsive thing he's ever done, but outside of a zinging sense of exhilaration mixed with nerves, he's not regretting it.

He had promised his mother that he wasn't moving, that Oahu wasn't a permanent choice. "Just, two weeks wasn't enough." He has no idea how much time will be enough, or at what point staying in one place stops being considered a holiday and becomes living there.

His plans haven't changed: he still wants to further his education, still wants to find a career that will allow him to make a difference. He's not running from any of that but he wants to do it right. Wants to go to classes and remember why he's there, and why it's important; where it's taking him and why that destination means anything to him at all, which is something he'd forgotten until he came to this island.

He's fairly certain that he'll recognize when it's time to go back. Hopefully when that time comes, he'll be able to make the right decision. Hopefully, when the time comes, he won't have to leave everything behind.

_________________________________

Without an imminent departure date looming, Nate finds the structure of his days changing. The pressure to do and see all he can is gone; there are days where he doesn't go anywhere near the water except to run along the beach, and days that are spent almost entirely in the ocean. He surfs, and he reads and he takes up watching C-Span and checking the news, both of which were things he actively avoided before.

He goes climbing with Rudy and Cherie at Diamond Head, rides a dune buggy with Ray, horseback rides with Walt, and goes snorkeling with Brad. On mornings when he wakes in a cold sweat he sits on one of the Adirondack chairs set on the private beach beneath the palm trees and he writes. Sometimes he talks to Brad, sometimes he talks to Rudy, and sometimes he doesn't talk about the Corps at all. 

It feels like bits and pieces of himself are stitching back together again, but mostly he's happy and keeping busy and he doesn't spend too much time philosophizing. At night, they go out together as a group, or Ray and Walt come into the main house and they watch a movie. Sometimes Brad and Nate spend the evening by themselves. But every night, regardless of how the day is spent, Nate climbs into Brad's California king bed, slips under the soft sheets and looks out the glass windows to watch the shadows of palm trees sway in the dark, listens to the surge and roll of the waves along the beach as Brad presses close to him.

At some point Nate stops thinking: _this is healing._

He starts to think: _this is living._

_________________________________

When he finishes the call, Nate drops his cellphone onto the kitchen counter and grabs two beers from the fridge. He walks along the sheltered path toward the water where Brad is sitting on one of the wooden Adirondack chairs, his legs stretched out in a leisurely sprawl, his feet bare.

"That was Evan," Nate explains as he settles into the opposite chair, handing over one of the beers as he leans back. "He wanted to run some things by me, check that the quotes he was using were okay." Brad makes a low 'hm'ing sound.

Nate suspects that Evan began working on his book before he ever settled down to write the magazine articles that sent him to Iraq in the first place. Some of the others were caught off-guard, like it hadn't occurred to them that all those notes the reporter was taking might add to more than a handful of pages in a few of issues of Rolling Stone. Nate saw the book coming from a long ways off, plenty of time to adjust to the idea, though it had never bothered him much to begin with. He knows Evan, and he's confident that the end result will a fair representation of events.

"It's pretty much finished," Nate continues. "He's been stuck in the editing phase for a while."

"You keep in touch?"

Nate tips his head to the side. "He's called a few times about the article, and then about the book, mostly just fact checking, that kind of thing. But yeah, we talk some. This is the first we've spoken since I've been in Oahu, though. He was a little surprised."

The last time they'd talked Nate had been at school preparing for midterms, and Evan had accused him of being certifiably insane for jumping straight out of a Humvee in Iraq and into a lecture hall at Dartmouth. 

This time, Evan had called just as Nate and Brad had been finishing dinner and Nate had gone out to the patio while Brad had finished clearing away. "There's some weird white noise coming across the line," Evan had said.

"Hm," Nate had said. "Maybe it's the waves." 

"Since when are there waves at Dartmouth?" Nate had found himself explaining, and when he had finished, Evan's only response was, "Well, if there was ever anyone who needed a holiday…"

This feels like so much more than a holiday. He doesn't quite have words for it, but he imagines it's like Odysseus, which only makes him wonder what phase of the journey he's on. The first thing that comes into his head is: home, safe, and victorious, but another part of him wonders if his time in Oahu is maybe a little bit like Odysseus' stay with Circe: feasting, drinking, reveling before continuing onward. Toward home.

Maybe it's darkness, creeping in across the sky, or the quiet lull of the water. Nate finds himself peeling at his beer label as he admits, "When we were stationed in Baghdad, I thought about maybe doing something like that."

Brad turns his head, fixes him with a steady gaze. "Writing a book?" Nate nods. "Why don't you?"

“I can’t write a book,” Nate scoffs. “I have no idea where I would even begin.”

Brad takes a swig of beer, his gaze narrowed, considering. “I was born.” 

Nate rolls his eyes. “Don’t even.”

“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.”

“Stop quoting Dickens at me.”

He sees the smirk coming a mile away, but when the corner of Brad’s lips quirk up, just one side that somehow manages to show all his teeth, Nate can’t help laughing. He sort of loves that smile. “I thought you _liked_ Dickens.”

“Brad, I’m trying to be serious.”

“I’m trying to be helpful.” Nate raises a disbelieving eyebrow. Brad says, “You’ve already made a solid start. Don’t bitch about an opening line.”

It takes a moment to realize that Brad’s talking about his journal. He wants to protest, to explain that the journal is just a stupid exercise that his therapist recommended, and that half the things written in that book probably aren’t even coherent. 

He doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he takes a swig from his beer and stares out at the ocean. “I can’t write about the Marines, or Iraq or any of it.”

“Why not?”

Nate shrugs. “What would be the point?” It’s a variation of a question that’s been haunting him since he returned to the States. Since before that even, though he can’t quite place when it began. 

He almost doesn’t register it at first because it starts so quietly that the rush-roar of the waves along the beach obscures it. But then the sound grows until Brad’s honey-smooth laugh bubbles up and leaves Nate blinking, unsure whether to be furious or shocked. 

As a result, he’s left swinging awkwardly somewhere between the two. “What the fuck is so funny?”

“’What’s the point’,” Brad echoes, still snickering, though he's clearly trying to reign in his amusement with little success. “Nate,” he tries and then shakes his head. Tries again, “You’re a fucking grade-A, Ivy League, colossal moron. I have heard you bitch for hours about a damned speech you saw on fucking C-SPAN that nobody gives a shit about. You can’t even go to the beach without bringing a book with you, and that's without even taking your pretentious, hippie communist education into account.”

Nate narrows his eyes. “What’s your point?”

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you don't believe words matter?” Brad asks. He pauses, and then opens his mouth like he still has more to say. Nothing more comes. Instead, Brad huffs, shakes his head and then gets up, walking up the path away from the water.

Nate isn’t sure how long he sits there in the dark, barely able to make out the white roll of the waves in the faint light coming from the house. He finishes his beer and sets it aside, but he’s still sitting, thinking. The problem, he thinks, is that he doesn't know what he wants to be anymore. 

He was a student until he heard someone talk about ‘duty’ and ‘honor’ and being more than an individual in a crowd of people, about being a ‘team’ that could work together and protect each other. He was an infantry officer until someone recommended him for reconnaissance training. He was an idealist until he woke up one day standing at the side of a bridge en route to Al Kut looking at the passport of some college kid he might have shot the night before, and couldn’t pretend that his presence in that place wasn’t fucking things up even worse. He was a recon officer until he thought, 'No more.'

Nate remembers his mother smiling at him as he climbed out of her car at the airport. “Get some sun," she'd told him. "Swim in the ocean, learn to Hula. Just _be_.”

Nate had thought, “Be _what_?”

When retired from the Marines he’d had it easy. His family was there for him, he had friends who stuck by him and put up with his mood swings, and inappropriate comments resulting from too much time spent with a bunch of guys who rarely, if ever, concerned themselves with being PC. He had an education and the opportunity to continue that education, the money to do so. He’d landed on his feet.

So why the hell doesn't it feel that way?

When he walks back into the house he finds Brad sitting on the bed wearing a pair of cotton pajama pants and his black-framed geek-chic glasses that really should not be as hot as they are. He's got his laptop propped on his legs as he types. The sight momentarily derails what Nate had intended to say, especially when Brad glances up over the top of the frames.

Nate clears his throat. "Back home. Most of my friends, and a fair number of my extended family think that I joined the Marines as some sort of rebellion."

Brad blinks at him. "Blasting 50 Cent and OutKast wasn't enough?"

It feels a little bit like those tentative moments after a fight where both parties walk around on eggshells constantly checking and double-checking, _'Are we good now? Is it over?'_ It isn't so much that they actually fought, it's that this is one of those moments where there's that choice: share a little bit more, or keep the defenses high. 

Tentatively, Nate takes a step closer as he shrugs. "I guess, even when I was rebelling I was a pretty good kid. My grades were always consistent; I never broke any laws or did something that might embarrass my parents or anything. Joining the Marines was probably the most outrageous thing I did…well, except for my prom, but that's not the point. I suppose I can understand why people would think my retiring from the Corps was just correcting a mistake. Coming to my senses or something."

Brad sets his laptop aside and shifts up on the bed. Nate has his full and undivided attention. Brad says, "It wasn't a mistake," with such steady confidence that Nate is momentarily winded. Ever since he mentioned that there was a time when he might have gone to military school, Nate has caught himself imagining Brad as soldier. As a Marine.

He pictures Brad in a MOPP suit, forest camouflage because apparently the people in charge of ordering MOPPS didn't get the memo that Iraq is a desert country. Dust-covered, weighed down by his gear, an M-4 at rest by his side, dark circles under his eyes because he hasn't slept in seventy-two hours, hair buzzed short to comply with the grooming standard. Tall and utterly, undeniably competent. Nate knows Brad would have been the kind of Marine you'd want leading the charge: steady, reliable, capable.

"I know why I joined," Nate says, swallowing around the constriction in his throat. He is impossibly relieved that Brad bowed to the ocean and not the military; grateful to Brad's uncle for dragging what Nate is certain was an impossibly stubborn and precocious teenager out to the water, even if it was against Brad's will at the time. Glad that Brad is here, now, and not out there in the desert fighting. "I know why I left, too. Them thinking that…it doesn't change things."

"Then what?" Brad prompts. 

There have been questions plaguing him since he got back from Iraq that rise to meet him now; that never really leave him be. Nate thinks about all the moments in the past few years that he's proud of, finds that it's easier to recall all the things he would do differently, the moments that made him question everything he thought he understood, the moments when it was almost too much to carry on. There are things that he has kept to himself, and he knows those moments are written out in his journals. Knows that those moments would be included in any book he tried to write.

There would be no more secrets, no more pretenses.

He says, "I think if I wrote a book the USMC would blacklist it."

Again, that steady blue gaze matches his. Nate knows Brad's hearing all the things that he doesn't say, knows that, at least in part, Brad understands. "Then I guess you shouldn't write a book."

Nate raises his eyebrows. "If no one reads it, then it won't sell."

"And then it won't make money, and you'll have to go to school and earn your living the good old fashioned way. I get it." Brad keeps matching his stare head-on. "Don't write it, it's not worth it."

"I'm serious, Brad."

"Message received," Brad says, throwing in a wise-ass little salute because he's just that much of a prick. "I'll never mention it again. I apologize for bringing it up, clearly the idea was poorly thought-out on my part."

Nate wrestles him down for that, pins the taller frame beneath him with ease borne of years of training. Brad holds still under his grip and smirks, still defiant to the last. Nate keeps his grip strong on Brad's wrists keeping his hands pinned on either side of his head, but he leans down and lays a soft kiss against Brad's lips. He says, "I can't."

"Tell me you 'won't', and that's fine. I can understand that, even. Don't tell me that you 'can't', because frankly, Nate, that's bullshit."

Nate slips his tongue into Brad's mouth and lets his grip slacken, and then releases it entirely so Brad's hands can ghost along Nate's back and then fist into his hair. Sixta's gruff voice echoes in his memories: "Grooming standard" as Brad's fingers curl and tug gently, adjusting the angle of the kiss just so, deepening it.

_________________________________

Nate pushes the idea away. He keeps up with his journal but doesn't put any extra effort into his words. The whole point of the exercise is to help him make sense of things, and he doesn't want any extra pressure on that. To him, books are written by people who have already figured something out, and that's not him.

He reaches a tenuous balance with Ray, who stops narrowing his eyes accusingly whenever Nate mentions his home back in Baltimore, or his intentions to return to school at Dartmouth. "Just be careful," Ray says. "You don't have to go to war to get fucked up." 

Nate sees vague hints of Brad's insecurities, hears the hidden meanings behind the flippancy, notices the moments of hesitation, or the shifts in mood that leave him curiously quiet. Brad shares himself in fits and starts, and Nate has learned to be patient. 

It takes three weeks of living together before Nate learns about the last serious relationship Brad had, which ended when his girlfriend married his best friend. "They live back in California," Brad had said, in that infuriatingly casual tone, like the entire exchange hadn't been devastating. "She's pregnant now. They called me the other day." 

'The other day' being the day when Brad had disappeared until late evening, taken his board and his truck and left his cellphone, and Nate, behind. "This is how Brad works shit out," Ray had said as Nate paced the length of the living room. "Sometimes he drives himself home in time for dinner, sometimes not. Sometimes you get a call from the hospital because he pulled some totally moronic, amateur surf-shift and nearly got himself killed."

When Brad had come home Nate had said that next time at the very least Brad should take his cell. He hadn't pushed further.

The next piece of truly personal information Nate gets comes from a magazine. It's the latest issue of _Carve_ , which he stumbles on when he's over in the guesthouse visiting Walt. Brad doesn't subscribe to any surf magazines, and outside of a few surfers who are in Oahu on holiday, Brad doesn't get recognized that often. At least, the people who recognize him see him frequently enough not to make a big deal about it. 

There's a picture of Brad beside the article and that, more than the title, is what catches Nate's attention. In the photograph a giant arching wave is cresting and Brad is perfectly balanced on his board, totally covered up by the wave. Nate skims the article, notes Brad's achievements and thinks that the journalist who wrote this apparently had more than a little crush. His eyes catch on a paragraph that details the strength and focus needed to win Triple Crown, 'especially so soon after suffering a significant loss.' 

In December, just before the competition, Brad's uncle Daniel died in a hospital back in California.

After dinner Nate follows Brad onto the porch. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to talk about it. I still don't. It's always there, impossible to forget…he raised me, Nate, in every way that matters. This house, the boats, so much of this is stuff he left me. It sounds ungrateful but …I don't care about it…" Brad scrubs a hand over his eyes, runs it back through his hair and lets out a whooshing breath. 

Nate ends up sitting on the patio stones with his back leaning awkwardly against one of the wooden columns, Brad resting against his chest, listening to the waves. "He was a corporate lawyer," Brad says. "He was successful, but eventually he burnt out and he quit. I was a kid at the time, but my mom told me he was pretty rough for a while, and then one day he told her that he was moving to Hawaii and he'd taken up surfing. He taught me everything…"

Daniel had died of a heart attack when he'd been visiting Brad's family back in California. Brad had been in Oahu. He'd flown back for the funeral and the first thing he had done when he returned to Oahu was enter Triple Crown.

Nate thinks about the focus and quiet that he feels when he surfs, the sense that nothing else beyond that single moment exists. He more than understands why Brad had trouble mentioning his uncle, why he turns to surfing in order to cope. "I care about you, Brad," Nate says. "I don't want to learn about you from a magazine, but I can understand that there are some things that are hard to talk about."

It's another significant figure in Brad's life who has left him, intentionally or no. Nate understands Ray's trepidation a little better, but he can't bring himself to regret any of the decisions that have brought him here. He realizes that until this moment, a part of him has been wondering how all of this could be so easy for Brad, this relationship thing. He should have known better. Nothing in life is ever easy except giving up.

_________________________________

The first person that Nate tells about the book is Mike Wynn, his former Gunnery Sergeant, who is less surprised by the idea of Nate writing than he is that Nate is basically living in Oahu.

In turn, Nate is surprised that Mike even knows where he is at all because he certainly didn't update anyone as to his holiday plans. It was supposed to be two weeks, and it's not like he's on the phone with Mike or anyone else from the Corps all that regularly.

"No, you're not," Mike says, wryly. "Though you could stand to check-in now and again. Scuttlebutt came from Reporter."

"I sent you and Cara a Christmas card," Nate defends. "And since when is Evan part of the knitting circle?"

Mike snorts. "Since he went to war with us, Nate." 

They talk for most of the morning and it makes him feel homesick the same way that talking to his mom or his dad makes him homesick. Mike got him through some of the toughest moments of OIF, of Nate's entire career as an officer. There are things that Mike knows that Nate has never told anyone else, and there's some things that only Mike could understand because they were usually standing side-by-side when the shit came rolling downhill, even if Nate's the one it slammed into first. 

He starts out writing on Brad's laptop, sitting on the beach and glancing up periodically to try and pick Brad out amongst the crowd of surfers. It's never difficult, especially when Brad takes a wave. There is a certain effortless beauty to the way Brad rides a wave that reminds Nate always of what it's like to be right where you're supposed to be, doing precisely what you should be doing, at the exact right moment. 

After a while, his mom gets together a package and she includes his laptop, which means that there are no longer mini feuds between himself and Brad when they both want to use the laptop a the same time.

When Nate tells Evan about the book Evan asks if he's planning on making writing his career, now that's he's retired from the Marines. "I don't think I have more than one book in me," Nate says. "Whether it gets published or not, I don't even think that really matters to me."

This answers entirely baffles Evan. Maybe it's because he's a journalist who makes his money off what he writes, the notion of putting effort into something and not caring if it succeeds is probably foreign. To Nate, though, the writing isn't the point. "I'm not writing to make a point," he says. "I think maybe I'm writing to find one."

Evan wishes him luck and offers to give any advice or support that Nate might need, "Just give me a call." It makes Nate think of what Brad told him months ago, when he decided to extend his stay in Oahu, that everyone who comes into your life has a purpose. Evan was just another reporter when he first entered Camp Mathilda, and Nate knows he endured some teasing from the platoon, but somewhere along the way he became as much a part of the group as it is possible for a civilian to be, and Nate's grateful for that.

_________________________________

It's not always smooth sailing. Nate has days when he wants to pull his hair out over his writing, when he has nothing worthwhile to say, when no words come to him at all, when he writes an entire section and then throws it out. He's snarky and irritable and he knows that, but he can't help it.

Brad has days when he is stubborn and infuriating, or sullen and impossible, and Nate doesn't have the luxury of retreating to the guesthouse like Walt and Ray. They fight and yell and they make up again and somewhere in the middle of it all Nate remembers Brad saying: "It doesn't have to be _'moving in'_. It would be too soon for that anyway. But, you could move in."

If there's a difference, he isn't seeing it.

Brad puts on the coffee and Nate takes down the mugs, pops three pieces of toast into the toaster because Brad only ever eats one slice, and then turns back to the eggs while Brad gets out two small bowls and spoons yogurt into them. "Don't look now," Nate says, smiling. "But I think we might actually be in a relationship."

Brad tilts his head to the side, smirking. "I'm strangely alright with that."

Nate nods. "Me too." He doesn't think about home, or Dartmouth. That's a whole other world away, a place he's going back to, some day, but not tomorrow, and certainly not today. Right now he's taking time to just _be_. 

A portion of that, a significant portion, includes being with Brad.

_________________________________

Evan Wright publishes his book at the start of spring. He sends an advance copy to Nate, who reads it through in a single day and can't quite find the words after he finishes it. The copy is signed; there is a quote from Augustine of Hippo written out in Evan's messy print.

"Anyone who looks with anguish on evils so great must acknowledge the tragedy of it all; and if anyone experiences them without anguish, his condition is even more tragic, since he remains serene by losing his humanity," Brad reads when Nate hands over the book.

Nate still feels a bit shell-shocked. "I knew he was observant. I didn't know just how observant until I read that."

Brad reads the book always in the evening, lying on the couch with his feet propped on Nate's lap. He doesn't make any comments. He doesn't laugh or snort or react in any way. Sometimes Nate turns from the television and wants to ask, _'What part are you at now?'_ but he doesn't. 

Just once, he thumbs open the book to the place Brad has marked-off when he finds it sitting on the coffee table and no one is around. He skims a few lines, recognizes the description of Schwetje's attempt to call in a fire mission that would have killed the entire platoon. After that, Nate stops checking on Brad's progress.

When he finishes reading the book Brad puts it aside and asks, "Did you want to talk about it?"

Nate flips off the television and shifts on the sofa so he's twisted to face Brad. "What did you think?"

Brad's face is inscrutable. "It was well written." Nate nods, because he thought so as well. "It seemed like a fair representation of events?"

"Yeah," Nate confirms. "He did a good a job." They lapse into silence. "I think I just wanted you to have some sort of sense of what it was like. From a different perspective, maybe a less biased one."

Brad snorts. "Nate, based on what I read this reporter had a hell of a lot more bias than you ever show when you talk about the idiots in command." Nate purses his lip and frowns, which makes Brad snicker. "Christ, that's exactly what I'm talking about."

"It's force of habit!" Nate knows it's more than that. He has no delusions about war or humanity in general. People are flawed, war is fucked, and not everyone who is attracted to battle represents the ideal that the USMC strives toward. He isn't interested in passing judgments; he just wants to make sense of what his part was in all of that. Where did he fall on that broad spectrum of good and bad officers? He already knows that he doesn't entirely comply with the expectations the Corps has, he's not certain, though, where he falls in terms of his own.

_________________________________

"If you could surf one wave anywhere in the world, which wave would you surf?" Ray asks one day. They're out at their beach again, sitting on their boards waiting for the next set to roll in. Nate's tried a few different waves around the island but he's fond of this location, if only because it is isolated and there are no treacherous conditions outside of the water itself.

Nate shrugs. "It doesn't matter to me. It's not about the waves."

"What the fuck to you mean? Of _course_ it's about the waves!" Ray squawks.

To Nate, surfing is about losing himself and finding himself in the same moment. He can do that on any wave, so long as there's some decent height to it. 

"Surfing is all about pushing your limits," Ray lectures. "Tell him, Rudy.

Rudy only shakes his head. "Ray, my friend, everybody is looking for something different in the waves." 

"Walt." Ray twists around on his board. "Come on. Back me up."

"Sorry Ray," Walt says. "I'm with Rudy on this."

" _What?_ You can't tell me after last year's Big Wave when you had that crazy run that you don't surf for the challenge."

Walt shrugs. "I surf to create a moment worth remembering."

"Besides," Rudy says, interrupting the tirade they can all see Ray brewing. "If you really want to push your limits, you should join Cherie and I on our holiday."

Ray rolls his eyes. "Rudy, I hate to tell you this, but crawling around the cold, damp, claustrophobic pitch-black caves in northern Brazil, going who the fuck knows where is not what a holiday is."

"I didn't know you were afraid of the dark, Ray," Walt says innocently. 

Ray tackles Walt right off his perch on his board and Nate sits there, shaking his head and laughing and then out of nowhere he realizes that this is it. 

It's time to go back.

He doesn't know why, but it feels like the right choice. Oahu, the water, the people, is what he needed to get himself back on track, to remember that he is more than a student, or an officer. His book is raw but it's mostly finished, and he feels like he's made peace with everything he was, everything he did. 

Now it's time to move forward.

During dinner, both of them seated on opposite side of the table, Nate tells Brad. In retrospect, he doesn't know why he even considered that Brad might get angry, after all this time he should really know better. Instead, Brad locks down. "Not right away," Nate says. "But soon, I think. I'm registered for the next semester anyway, I want to shop my manuscript around over the summer, see if there's any interest. It just…it feels like it's time."

Brad nods. "I understand."

They finish dinner in contemplative silence, and then Brad stands and starts to clear away the dishes. "What's your stance on long distance relationships?" When Brad only blinks at him Nate continues, "I mean, when I go back home, go back to Dartmouth, are we still going to be together?"

Brad shakes his head. "That's never how it goes, Nate."

Nate jerks his eyebrows up. "I'm asking if you want to at least try."

Brad loads the dishwasher, adds the soap and sets the cycle, and then he leans forward over the counter, his arms rigid, hands braced on the cool slate, his back to Nate. He says, "Yes," and it sounds like this admission has cost him dearly. 

"Me too." Nate rests his forehead on Brad's back, his arms wrapping around Brad's waist and he breathes.

_________________________________

It feels right to go, but it's not easy.

Nate navigates the airport, his friends clustered around him, all them doing a fair impression of a school of fish as the walk. Everyone is talking and laughing and upbeat, and Nate is missing them each already. It's hard. Oahu and Brad and the others feel more like home than anything has in a long while. He hasn’t even left the island and Nate's already feeling homesick. 

His bags are checked and Walt has assured him that his surfboard will be fine, and that he can pick it up with the oversized luggage when arrives back in Baltimore. "Trust me, I've done this before. I haven't lost a board yet. How about you, Brad?"

"Not once."

"There. You see?" Walt smiles. Then his expression changes in a blink of an eye, goes flat and deadly serious. "If you lose it, I will be very unhappy." Nate is still recovering from the shock when the familiar, smiling Walt he's become used to returns, laughing as he bumps a fist into Nate's upper arm. "Just fooling…but seriously."

Ray scampers back to the group, thrusting a stack of magazines at Nate. "I got you some light reading for the epic flight.” Nate scans the magazines and ascertains that they are all about surfing, except for one porn rag tucked in the middle. "Seriously," Ray says. "This is a long flight." Nate is pretty certain that the airport bookshop does not carry porn, which makes him wonder where the skin mag came from. At least it looks new, so he's pretty certain it didn't come from under Ray's mattress. 

"They're all new issues, and Brad's not in any of them," Ray says. "Which is why I also brought these." He hands over several other magazines while ignoring Brad's protests. Nate groups the entire bundle together and stashes them all quickly in his carry on before Brad can snatch them away.

"God _dammit_ , Ray," Brad says, but he sounds more resigned than anything.

"Don't worry. Any future articles will be forward to your email address. I'll let you know if there's a radio or television broadcast coming up. Some places actually film the competitions so, you know, I'll keep you posted."

Nate smiles. “Thanks, Ray.”

“No problem, buddy.” Ray throws an arm around Nate's shoulders. “I’m there for ya, whatever you need. But I draw the line at taking sexy pictures of Bradley over here.” Then his head tilts as he eyes Brad up and down. “Actually…”

“ _No_ , Ray,” Brad says, with enough exasperation that Nate gets the feeling this is a conversation they’ve had before.

“What? Long-distance relationships are tricky, okay? You gotta develop some techniques, is all I’m saying.”

Rudy gives Nate a bone-crushing hug and Cherie places a lei over his head, the flowers fresh and fragrant. "Travel safely, Nate," she says, and kisses his cheek.

"I hope to hear from you soon, brother," Rudy adds.

Walt gives him a friendly hug, when he steps back he's smiling. "Make a wave," he says, holds up his hand with his thumb and pinkie out. 

Nate finds his throat constricting. There are no words that can adequately express how grateful he is to have found each of them, that they embraced him like a friend more or less immediately. He doesn't want to leave even though he knows he has to. Even though he's certain this 'good-bye' isn't absolute. 

Nate says, "Mahalo."

Brad shifts closer then, the heat of his body seeping through the thin button-down he's wearing. The kiss he gives Nate is what his sister's would probably consider a church kiss, soft and sweet and ever so reserved. When he starts to shift back, Nate grabs a fist full of his shirt and tugs him closer and kisses him properly.

It's not 'good-bye' it's 'see you later', but that 'later' could be a while from now and Nate intends to take his fill while he can. Ray and Cherie can hoot and give catcalls all they want, it won't stop him.

"Uh," Walt says. "Not to break up this moment but your plane is boarding pretty soon, and you have to pass through the gate…"

Reluctantly, Nate steps back. "Right," he says, taking a bracing breath. "I'll see you all later, then." It sounds woefully inadequate, and he stands there trying to think of something better.

"Good luck, little buddy!" Ray says, waving his hand. "When you get your seat, look for me out the window, okay? Because I'm totally running down the runway beside your plane, being all weepy and waving at you and shit."

Walt frowns. "You mean like those black and white movies where the heroine always cries and says 'goodbye' a thousand time and sobs into her handkerchief?"

Ray nods. "That's what I'm talking about. _That's_ the extent to which I am going to miss you, man. I'm going to miss the _shit_ out of you."

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure that whole running thing only works for trains," Walt says.

Nate's snickering, his moment of melancholy mostly conquered until he meets Brad's gaze, and Brad says, "Aloha," softly, his voice a little rough. 

Then it doesn't matter what joke Ray tries to make because Nate's chest is constricting and he aches with the thought of leaving. "Aloha," he says back, raises his hand and flashes the classic surfer wave, pinkie and thumb out, and then he forces himself to turn on his heel and walk through the security line.

By the time he boards his plane, Nate's managed to compose himself. He tries to remind himself that there's things he's looking forward to when he gets back: seeing his family and his friends, getting ready to go back to school and finishing his book. 

He drops down into his seat, which is by the window just above the wing and glances around. At least he seems to be leaving during the one month of off-season that Oahu has, which means there is a chance, however small, that the plane isn't teeming with people. 

A chirruping ringing starts up, and it takes him a second to realize that it's his cellphone registering a text. Nate pulls it out of his carry on. There's a message from Brad: "Did I mention I have a condo in California?"

He catches himself grinning down at his phone. Quickly, Nate types back a reply and then switches his phone off. He thinks: "Yeah, I'll be back," and knows that it's true, even if he isn't sure when. He's not sure what exactly lies ahead of him, but he's looking forward to it. Nate tucks his phone away and settles back in his seat as his plane begins to taxi to the runway.


End file.
